Dicentra formosa
by The Demon's Song
Summary: Well," he said sharply, coldly, noticing with great satisfaction that Potter was no longer willing to meet his eyes, "I wonder if the Wizarding World would be intrigued to know what their dear precocious savior really is." SSHP
1. Secrets, secrets are no fun

**Hey, it's Song. I'm back from my ridiculously long fanfiction hiatus with.... a Harry Potter fic? Yeah, technically I should be rewriting my older fics, but when inspiration strikes.... **

**Little tidbits you should probably know: In my world, Snape is alive. The epilogue clearly never happened. Remus Lupin also survived, as did Fred Weasley. Also, Harry's eyes are magically fixed, I didn't just forget about his glasses. If I've forgotten anything, it'll probably become readily apparent.**

**Disclaimer: I really, really don't own this. Keep that in mind.**

**Warnings: Slow moving slash, which does mean male male pairings are involved. If you don't like slash, please don't read this story, and definitely don't flame it. Occasional curses. That's it, really.... enjoy!**

Had Severus Snape ever made a list of places he never wanted to be, this would have been high on said list.

Of course, he never had completed such a list, as it was clearly an utter waste of time, but that was most distinctly not the point.

The war was over—had been for months, an entire summer without worry or interruptions in the form of an aching Dark Mark. Snape had, through the duration of those months, returned to his scarcely inhabited manor with the dual intentions of healing from wounds gained during the final battle and not being forced into anything. This he accomplished splendidly, spending lazy months doing nothing but reading in his library, walking around his grounds, and ingesting copious amounts of alcohol.

Eventually, as it always did, summer began to threaten to end. And so he had begun to contemplate various places in which he might procure work. He had been, after all, cleared of all war crimes, meaning that, in theory at least, he should be perfectly able to find a job most anywhere. The Order no longer required his services as a spy, and he'd had more than enough of teaching students who grew gradually more idiotic with each year that passed—his Hogwarts career was most decidedly over.

As it turned out, being cleared of all charges by the Wizengamot did quite literally nothing to erase the suspicions of the people. So it was that despite his qualifications, work ethic and determination, Severus found himself turned away in location after location, always given some inadequate excuse meant to mask the real reason why he was being excluded; despite everything he had done, most of the public either despised him or were terrified of him.

With summer's end looming ever nearer, Snape had begun to worry. It became clear, over time, that none of his preferred venues of work wanted anything to do with the Potions Master, and this situation was only worsened when his second and even third choices refused his applications.

Finally, he had been presented with several options. One of them, as a random example, had been working a cash register in a muggle supermarket, and Severus Snape was not willing to stoop so low as that. Other, similar choices had presented themselves, leaving Severus to bemoan the idiots that the wizarding world's populous was composed of and wonder if he had no worthwhile jobs left available. Manors, as anyone who owns one will know, do not pay for themselves—any repairs would pretty much decimate the funds left to Snape.

It had been then that the letter had come, and Snape, reaching the end of his rope financially, had swallowed his pride and written back in acquiescence. He had then packed what belongings he required and Apparated away somewhat indignantly.

And so here he was, sitting once again in the great hall of Hogwarts, watching the student body file in to fill in the seats below. Severus Snape had, somehow, been once again talked into accepting the position of Potions professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Which meant another year of brats and bad grammar and extremely lackluster essays and potions to be graded. Sometimes Snape honestly believed fate had it out for him.

The teachers' table had changed some little bit from previous years, most noticeably in that Minerva McGonagall filled the headmaster's—or, more accurately, headmistress'—chair rather than the seat alloted to the Transfiguration teacher. Dumbledore's loss had been a heavy blow for Hogwarts, and even Severus occasionally had to admit to missing the antics of the meddling old man. Still, Minerva looked every part the role she would be taking on: strict as ever, with new authority to make the entire castle fall under her reign. Filling McGonagall's old seat was a new teacher, a petite blond woman whose name Snape hadn't quite caught. Apparently she had been appointed by the Ministry and was highly recommended. This, of course, had quickly convinced Severus that something in her class was going to go horribly, terribly wrong fairly early in the school year. To his right, in the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor's chair, sat Remus Lupin, who had found himself accepted by the wizarding world despite his lupine condition after being declared a war hero.

To make matters worse, more students had attended Hogwarts that year than in any year previous—not only had there been a flood of first years, but McGonagall had somehow decided that it would be wise to allow any former seventh years who felt their educations had been hindered by the war to return to Hogwarts. This 'eighth year' was, quite fortunately, a one-year deal, but it did mean that in addition to the seven years of idiots he was used to teaching, Severus would have to continue instruction for a group of complete morons he thought he would never have to see again after the previous year.

Snape turned his eyes to the Gryffindor table and glanced over the eighth years sitting there, hoping that maybe, just maybe—his hope failed him and he fought back a groan. No, Potter was most decidedly there, with Weasley and Granger by his sides. Granger, Snape had expected to return; the presence of the other two members of the so-called 'Golden Trio' surprised him somewhat, as they had never seemed even slightly interested in the majority of their studies. Weasley's presence was especially surprising—it seemed to him the red-headed annoyance might not even have the intelligence necessary to remember where Hogwarts was, let alone to continue his attendance. He sneered at the back of Potter's head for a moment, then tore his gaze away and fought the urge to run headlong out of the grand hall and out of the castle while he still had a chance to escape his own personal hell. Instead he glared at a group of first year Hufflepuffs, gratified to hear their terrified squeaks. At least he hadn't lost his touch.

Severus Snape was a practical man, with very little faith in divination, premonitions or anything of the sort, but he knew at that moment that he was going to have a very bad year.

.........................

At the Gryffindor table, Hermione Granger was just having a premonition of a very opposite sort. She had, to her immense satisfaction, managed to convince both Ron and Harry to accompany her back to Hogwarts, and it hadn't even taken her quite so much lecturing as she'd anticipated. All three had stayed at the Burrow in the week before the school year was meant to start, and she had used that time wisely. Finally both boys had promised they would go back to school if she would please just stay quiet for a moment or two—Hermione had beamed, hugged them both, and informed them that she'd known they would agree days before and so had taken the liberty of taking money from both of them to buy their school books in advance.

So there they were, sitting at the long Gryffindor table for the first time in their eighth and final year, and it was almost as if nothing had changed. The war was over, Hermione could study for another year, and Harry and Ron were stuffing their faces with food—the world, in Hermione's books, was all good.

She allowed her mind to focus once more on the conversation her friends were engaging in.

"Seriously, Harry," Ron was saying, pausing only briefly to rip another chunk of chicken away from the drumstick he was mauling, "you'll have to tell us what you did over the summer eventually."

Harry smiled cryptically, something Hermione had not known he was capable of doing, and shook his head. "You'll just have to learn to cope with disappointment, mate," Harry said, eyes bright with internal laughter. "I've all ready told you all I plan to."

Ron scoffed. "You and my sister mutually break things off, and then you disappear for two months, only to come back and tell us nothing more than 'I made some new friends and did a bit of traveling.' What, did you work as an assassin for the Ministry of Magic or something? Are you sworn to secrecy?"

"Call me Potter," Harry said with mock seriousness. "Harry Potter." He then completely ruined the effect of the whole thing by glancing at Ron's mystified face and breaking into laughter.

"It's a muggle movie reference, Ron," Hermione clarified, scooping up more rice on her spoon. "Harry's just joking."

Ron cast his long time crush a scathing look. "I knew that!" he protested, though he'd known no such thing. "You don't need to tell me—," then he winced, stopped his tirade and continued in a low voice, "oy, Harry, don't look now, but Snape looks like he's contemplating killing you in your sleep."

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Gain-Way-Too-Many-Hyphenated-Titles, groaned under his breath, but did not turn. "I'd sort of forgotten he might be here," Harry admitted softly, the gentleness in his voice undermined by the sudden maliciousness he'd adopted toward the food filling his plate. He remained still, save for inflicting abuse on said food with his fork, until Ron quietly informed him that Snape had looked away.

"You'd think he might be done with his whole hatred thing by now," Harry griped. "Was he glaring at me during the final battle?"

"I don't really think he had time to glare at you, Harry. Besides, at least you know a little more of the reason behind it by now," Hermione added rationally.

"Stop acting sensible," Harry said, summoning a faint grin. "You might just convince me to act mature, and I think that might bring the apocalypse down on all of us."

Hermione merely rolled her eyes, as she was far too poised to snort. Well, that, and she knew her red headed friend would do enough snorting for the both of them. Once Ron had produced the sound she'd been waiting on, she continued, "You've really gotten much better at changing topics, Harry."

He had the common decency to flush slightly, though he did it with a smile. "It looks like the end of the world's been held off for another day—I still can't get anything past you, Hermione, so I think we're safe."

"Harry," Hermione warned, in a tone that suggested she was all of five seconds away from invoking his full name and maybe hexing him for good measure, "stop evading and tell us about your summer." Ron deliberately put aside his food for a moment to flash her what was likely meant to be a gracious smile, though it was honestly somewhat nauseating. She supposed the gesture was what counted, really.

Harry smiled at her as well, and Hermione found herself understanding why he had nearly been sorted into Slytherin. It was a dark-humored grin, one that warned her in advance that her friend was going to tell her positively nothing and enjoy doing it. "Well," he revealed at last, "I was in Muggle London for a bit. Bought some clothes, gawked at statues, acted like a total tourist. Anyway, like I said, I met some new people in London. They were," and here Harry paused for a moment, "a bit older than us, I think. I was," he said with a grin, "almost immediately _smitten_. We talked for a while, and they decided that I was far too old to have done no traveling, so I agreed to go along with them. And then I came back to the Burrow, spent a week with you two, and ended up here, sitting at this table, telling a story about my summer."

Ron blinked. "Is it just me, 'Mione," he inquired, having actually finished chewing this time before speaking, "or did Harry just manage to spend a minute talking without telling us anything important?" Hermione, who had expected as much, was still slightly impressed.

"Yes, Ronald," she supplied, sounding exasperated, "that is exactly what he's just done. And Harry?" The dark haired teen stiffened as she addressed him, likely expecting a rant. Instead she offered a smile and said, "Good choice. Whoever your companions for the summer might have been, they've taught you a lot."

Harry did not look greatly relaxed by this statement. "And here I was expecting the Spanish Inquisition," he said. "Exactly who are you and what have you done with Hermione Granger?"

"Oh, haha," she said dryly. "I just know when to stop prying."

"But I don't," Ron added in, raising an eyebrow curiously in Hermione's direction, "so you're gonna have to tell me everything, mate."

Harry opened his mouth, likely to spin off more useless details, when he suddenly went pale. It was slightly fascinating to watch—the red in his cheeks faded away all at once, leaving nothing but white skin in its place—and Hermione would have been amused by the picture it made had she not been worried for her friend. "Harry?"

Speaking through gritted teeth, he muttered, "Snape's glaring at me again, isn't he?"

Ron, being in the best place to view the Potions Master without craning his head at odd angles or obviously staring, looked up to the professor's table. "Yeah," he said, equally quietly. "Did you kill the man's puppy or something? Snape looks angrier than usual—and considering that we are talking about the original greasy git, that's saying something."

Harry's shoulders grew tense. "I haven't done anything to him," he affirmed, then shuddered. "I can feel his eyes on the back of my head." Disgust filled his voice at this comment. Still pale as snow, he seemed to toy with an idea before saying softly, "Look, I'm gonna go before Snape decides to actually get up and kill me himself. I think I'll go for a walk around the grounds or something. I'll meet up with you guys in the tower later."

"Harry," Hermione protested softly as the boy stood, her eyebrows furrowing, "you can't—"

Ron's hand pressed lightly on her upper arm. "Go ahead, Harry," he said. "We'll see you later." Their eyes met at this, before Harry nodded sharply, turned away from the table and strode towards the doors that marked the main entrance and exit to the Great Hall.

Hermione turned to watch the staff table, choosing not to watch the other students' reactions. Harry had to know there would be gossip about this—no one left the opening feast before they were all dismissed—but more importantly, one of the teachers might be upset. Snape, she discovered, was still glaring at Harry's back as he walked away, but otherwise the teachers' expressions showed no more than a mix of confusion and worry.

The doors swung open under Harry's hands, he slipped through, and they clicked shut once more.

Instantly, the entire Great Hall was consumed by chatter.

Hermione, much to her irritation, had to raise her voice to be heard over the din. "Ron, do you have any idea what that was?"

Ron shrugged. "It's Harry, 'Mione. Sometimes he has to go off and do things on his own. It's just the way he is. 'Sides, the Sorting is over and the feast is almost done, it's not like he's missing out on much."

She frowned slightly. "I hope he's feeling alright," she said lightly. "He was awfully pale."

Ron promptly distracted her as only he could: "Look, Hermione, are you gonna eat what you have on your plate, or can I have some of your chicken?"

Hermione fended the red head's fork away from her plate, eyes lingering on the doors for a moment. Then, shrugging, she put Harry's disappearance aside and focused on dinner.

.........................

Potter, Severus Snape reflected, had clearly inherited his father's penchant for melodrama. Not even the first day, and the boy was storming out of the Great Hall like he had a ghost on his heels—could the boy do nothing normally?

Snape mustered a sneer all throughout the rest of the welcoming feast, fueled by dislike for the arrogant, time-wasting bane-of-his-year that Harry Potter was as a general rule.

It was odd, really, to hear Minerva McGonagall speak to finish up the banquet, to look up and see the austere woman standing in front of the students rather than the long-bearded old man who had spent so much of his time manipulating Severus. The change was not necessarily a bad one, but then McGonagall had known Snape since in his school days and he was still not entirely sure whether she liked him or not. Regardless, McGonagall warned students away from the Forbidden Forest and wished everyone a good night, and Severus allowed his mind to wander.

Finally it was over, and Snape was free to spend his last night for what was likely to be quite some time without essays and tests to grade. He bade his fellow professors a polite, if somewhat dry, good night, before slipping through the door behind the teacher's table that offered a direct route to the dungeons.

.........................

Harry wasn't exactly sure where he was.

It was happening again. They'd said it wouldn't, probably, they'd said he'd be able to function normally without having to worry about anything. But clearly what they said was not necessarily what had occurred, because Harry was walking familiar passageways without any concept of where he might be in the castle.

The stones of the hallway floor were moving—they had to be, because Harry's balance was much improved but he was swaying from side to side like a drunk regardless. He couldn't quite make sense of his thoughts except to know that they were rambling and likely morphing into run-on sentences. But those were okay. If he was thinking in run-ons and walking unsteadily and seeing fog, he still had a little bit of time. Not much, judging by how grey his vision was becoming, but enough time to get away from the castle. He wasn't thinking in sentence fragments yet, he had time, he would be okay.

He'd meant to get out the entrance before anything went too wrong, but that hadn't worked so well, clearly, because if he was outside and seeing stone hallways anyway, he was worse off than he thought. He was starting to hurt, the dull ache that built up in his chest and arced outwards until no part of him felt healthy—his breaths were deeper, but he felt like he was about to hyperventilate anyway.

He stumbled to a stop. He was thinking in circles, getting nowhere—he had to make an actual plan before something went wrong. Where was he?

Footsteps. He heard footsteps, weight shifting on stone, just around a corner, close. Too close. Couldn't be found. Couldn't afford to be found. Trust, promises, couldn't break. Couldn't think....

_Step. Left, right. Nice and easy. Don't fall. Step._

_Footsteps fading. Safe._

_But still lost. Still inca—incompra—incomprehensible. Where?_

_Step. Pain, need air. Step. Keep going._

_Damn. Thoughts in fragments. Almost gone—move faster, not much time._

_Footsteps again. Laughter. Where? Down the hall. Can't run. Footsteps. Hide._

_Footsteps. Footsteps. Footstepsfootstepsfootsteps—door. Handle. Turn; locked. All—Alho—Alohamora! Open!_

Harry, still thinking in pieces, slid through the door his hands had met and shut it quietly behind himself. He couldn't see—his vision was fogged with swirling grey—but he stepped away from the door and felt for a wall. Making contact, he leaned himself up against it and tried to remain standing.

Beyond the door, the owners of the footsteps and laughter passed down the hallway, around a corner, and down another.

_Safe. Footsteps gone. Can't. Stand. Up._

Harry's knees buckled, and he slid down the wall, bumping roughly into the ground. Something made a metallic clink on contact with the stone floor.

_What?_

Lethargically, he moved a hand to his back pocket. Inside was a small flask of metal, which he drew out with numbing fingers. A quick shake had liquid sloshing inside.

_Idiot. Uncap—come on. Turn away_.

_Good. How much? A few swallows. Better safe than sorry._

_Nasty. Never tastes good. Always makes me tired._

_Sleep. Just a little bit of sleep._

_Sleep never hurt anything...._

.........................

First years were clearly demons in disguises, minions of Satan sent to irritate Hogwarts' Potions Professor to no end—Snape concluded as much shortly before nearly bowling over a group of giggling eleven-year-olds. Not that they'd been giggling before the raced around the corner, no, Snape would have heard and avoided that; they'd been almost perfectly silent until he was too far gone to avoid a collision entirely. It seemed the first years were quickly becoming ninjas as well, Snape thought, albeit nonsensically, as he knocked into them—his next and equally pointless thought was that of course Harry Potter had something to do with it, clumsy as the boy generally was. Vaguely disgusted with his line of thought, Snape was inclined to think that somehow, someone had spiked his mildly alcoholic beverage with something significantly higher in alcohol content; Severus had always been something of a lightweight, and it would explain why his coordination seemed to be failing horribly. It was at this point that he realized his mind had been wandering, and the near-yet-avoidable-collision with the first years had rapidly become a full-on-collision. Oops.

He refused to do something as undignified as fall down in front of _students_, and as such managed to stay upright. This, of course, had meant disrupting the balance of several of the aforementioned first years, but then they were only eleven and had little in the way of dignity to lose in the first place. With a slight sway, Snape regained his footing with the full intention of carrying onwards and pretending the whole thing had never happened.

One of the students stood, brow furrowed in what was likely supposed to an intimidating manner, and got out, "Hey! Look where you're—," before realizing precisely who she was talking to. Then she slipped into a stutter and took an unconscious step backwards.

Snape dryly said, "Quite."

"I'm sorry, Professor, I-I-I didn't recognize you for a moment and..."

"Fifteen points from Hufflepuff for being bumbling oafs." At this the girl looked ready to cry. Snape was rather pleased he hadn't lost his knack. "Walk carefully," he said, voice pitched just right to turn what might have been a concerned warning into a sharp threat.

He swept away in his peculiar fashion, the same one that had earned him a great many lovely names within the confines of the Gryffindor tower, and continued on to the dungeons.

McGonagall was going to have to be reprimanded, he decided. It really should not be quite so difficult to walk in a straight line. Also, whatever the hell his drink had been laced with, he was going to need to borrow, because damn but the stuff was effective.

Snape reached his classroom door, extremely glad that he had a night to himself before he had to teach any students—he didn't fancy lecturing with a hangover, something he'd done before and really didn't feel the need to repeat. He flicked briefly through his mental list of potions, calling the hangover remedy to mind as he passed the slightly opened door, mind already going to the procedures required for proper brewing...

Wait. Back a second there: slightly _opened_ door?

Severus paused, pushing aside his potion related thoughts. His classroom door was not supposed to be open; last he'd checked, the lock spell he'd keyed to it was holding strong, and he couldn't remember opening it himself. Had a student tried to break into his private stores?

In a moment, survival instincts had Severus' wand out of its holster and into his hands, held at the ready as he slowly approached the door. He didn't hear anything suspicious, and he couldn't sense any muffling charms to cancel noise, but then he hadn't survived years of spying by trusting his senses blindly.

Snape curled a hand around the doorknob warily, searching out the locking charm. It had, much to his disappointment, been opened by a single _alohamora_, though admittedly the spell had been about three or four times more powerful than was average. Feeling around the remnants of the spell, he realized that the magical signature felt a little... unusual. And, also, it felt a lot like one of Potter's spells.

Brandishing his wand, hoping the worst he would see within would be Potter, caught in the act, Severus threw the door open.

To his great relief, Potter caught in the act _was_ the worst thing his eyes revealed. No former Death Eaters out for blood, ready to torture and maim and kill one Severus Snape. To his disappointment, 'the act' turned out to be sleeping.

Why the hell was _Potter_ sleeping on his classroom floor?

Snape took a moment to view his student, who was sprawled out somewhat awkwardly. His legs, from the appearance of things, had buckled under him, making him slide down the wall. For all that Potter had no smell of alcohol about him, he looked, to use a useless colloquialism (Snape blamed this on Minerva's drink-spiking, as he would never indulge in such pointless words otherwise) completely and totally smashed. This theory was seconded when Severus saw the glint of a flask clasped between Potter's fingers.

With an expression that was a sort of hybrid between a smile and a smirk, Snape leaned down and lifted the metal container from Potter's hand. The boy stirred slightly, head tossing to one side, but he did not wake. Severus straightened up and set his fingers to unscrewing the cap. It wasn't like the students at Hogwarts were perfect little angels who never drank—they were teenagers, after all—but getting drunk enough to pass out in a teacher's classroom was not acceptable behavior, and Snape had really been hoping for something to hang over the Gryffindor's head all year.

The cap reached its last, topmost rotation, teetering on the brim of falling off, and Snape tugged at it absentmindedly, hoping to find firewhiskey within at the very least. The Potions Master was somewhat undoubtably surprised when, abruptly, the cap did not come off but rather spun furiously in the opposite direction, sealing the flask completely shut again.

Snape sneered. Well, apparently the boy had enough of a brain to key the flask to himself; anyone else who picked it up would be unable to get the thing open. But then, Severus Snape was not just _anyone else_, and he somehow doubted the Golden Boy had created the spell with him in mind. He spun the cap again, and once more it moved fluidly to the top; as he pulled the cap upwards, he did so with a pulse of magic not formed into a spell, as that might also trigger the protective spell.

The cap shocked his fingertips lightly, made a noise very similar to a raspberry being blown, and wound downwards once more.

Aggravated, Snape took a minute to probe the spell Potter had placed on the little flask. It was good, much better than his usual ones—the flask seemed just like any other until the cap made its inevitable last spin, and then the defenses snapped into place. It was certainly one of Potter's spells, however, as his essence seemed to linger all over the damned thing. How a mere boy could possibly cast a spell of that quality was beyond him, but Severus was more than confident that he could get the thing open and be done with his incrimination already.

For what he felt would be the final time, he twisted open the cap. This time, when it reached the top, he did not blast out with his magic; instead, he sent tendrils of it into the framework of the coding spell. The work was difficult, which bothered him immensely as Potter had never been this good before, but slowly Severus' magic slid into the core of the spell. He pushed one of the threads of power further, closing his eyes to visualize the delicate maneuver, and carefully wrapped it around the spell's center. Then, ripping that center out, he pulled at the cap.

Electricity crashed through his hands, numbing his fingers, and simultaneously a wave of magic swept around his, throwing his power away from the flask. A message was carried along his nerves quickly and efficiently, processed in his brain as: _don't_. He wasn't sure what had prompted the overenthusiastic response, but he was positively sure that Potter had never been able to do anything like that in the previous year.

The flask slipped from between his desensitized fingers, falling quickly to the ground and landing with a muffled crash.

Immediately, Potter was bolt upright, sweat beading on his skin. Even Snape, who admittedly spent as little time around the boy as possible and thus had no idea what constituted normalcy for the Gryffindor, could see he was clearly not quite himself. Severus wasn't quite sure of how accurate his perception was at that moment—he had been plied with alcohol not twenty minutes before, and had been basically assaulted by a little metal bottle besides—but it seemed to him that Potter's obnoxiously green eyes were a shade darker, ringed with grey. Both the boy's hands flew out, one grabbing his wand from a pocket and bringing it to the ready, and the other securing the flask and dragging it back against his body.

Then Potter blinked, and his eyes were perfectly normal. He bit his lip upon realizing where he was, then quickly shoved his wand and the silvery container back into a pocket. It seemed he was unaware of Snape's presence—he stood in a way that denoted stiff muscles and tiredness. The boy rolled his shoulders once, then turned with the intention of walking to the door, and in doing so proceeded to walk right into Snape.

That made twice in one day, Severus noted dully, watching Potter fumble for balance. At least this time he'd managed to avoid senseless thoughts while losing his grasp on the fight against gravity.

"P-professor Snape," Potter said, voice hoarse. "I didn't see you there."

Snape in no way missed the lack of a voiced apology, and he considered taking House Points for impudence, but decided Potter might just run off at that and then he would never get answers. "Mister Potter," Severus said, raising an eyebrow imperiously, "seeing as it is my classroom we are presently occupying, I should think I have an reason for being here. Your excuse, however, is not forthcoming. Enlighten me."

"Erm," the Gryffindor said as articulately as ever, scuffing a sneaker against the floor, "I got lost, sir."

Snape sneered again. "Do you mean to tell me, Mister Potter, that after eight years at Hogwarts, during which you spent considerable amounts of time wandering the halls under your blasted invisibility cloak after hours, you still have not learned the way to the Gryffindor tower? Because, if that is the case, I'm certain that infernal map you've always seemed so fond of might provide aide. If you are going to lie to me, Potter, at least bother to come up with a plausible justification for your actions."

"I'm not _lying_," the boy said vehemently. "I got _lost_."

Quirking an eyebrow, Snape spoke smoothly, "Fifteen points from Gryffindor for persistently lying to a teacher, and speaking without proper respect. I'll only ask once more, Potter—why are you here?" The words were said in a stiff staccato, the sort of tone he'd found quite effective when used in conversation the so-called Golden Boy.

Potter turned his eyes to meet Severus', and his voice, when he spoke, was full of a subdued fire. It was a significant improvement on the boy's previous tendency to yell. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was walking, professor, and I got lost. I am not lying to you. Now, if you don't mind, I think I should head off to the hospital wing, sir, as I'm not feeling well."

"Does the poor little Gryffindor have a headache? Or might you actually be suffering from something so serious as a stubbed toe?" Severus couldn't quite catch the boy's next words, muttered under his breath as they were. "Care to repeat that, Potter?"

"I said," Potter began, looking fully intent on starting yet another juvenile argument—then he paused. "I said that I'll be leaving now, Professor."

Severus opened his mouth to make some scathing retort—and doubtless set off Potter on yet another tirade—and then, looking at the boy, paused. There was most definitely something wrong with the boy, not only in his peculiar behavior but also on levels controlled subconsciously; the Gryffindor's body language and posture were all off. There was no arrogance in the boy's stance, no triumph in apparently rendering his professor speechless. Instead a sense of inexpressible exhaustion surrounded the Gryffindor, whose defiant pose was completely undone by the slight sagging of his shoulders, the hunched-in tenseness of his muscles. The boy would have seemed entirely lifeless if not for the energy still smoldering in his eyes. Snape had seen that sort of bodily expression many times before, in the mirror after exceptionally long meetings with the Death Eaters. But what right had a pompous eighteen-year-old brat to look like some greater issue was slowly taking a toll on him?

Potter, clearly taking his silence for a dismissal, stepped quickly around the Potions Master and exited as fast as he seemed to be able to manage. The metal of the flask glinted in the back pocket of his jeans, reminding Snape of his earlier questions, but by the time he'd mustered words the boy was long gone.

Snape stood for some time, puzzling over the oddities of the situation. He'd not even deducted points after Potter's abrupt departure—though he blamed that entirely on the alcohol. Shaking his head, he put the entire experience out of mind and left his classroom, renewing the locking charm and making for his quarters.

After all, if he was already bordering on tipsy, getting just a little more drunk really wouldn't hurt anything.

.........................

The Gryffindor Common Room, when Harry reached it, was very much as it always was. Cheerfully decorated, largely in Gryffindor colors, the room offered a sense of comfort that Harry was badly in need of, especially after that bizarre episode with Snape. He really ought to have been more careful, even in the state of mind he'd been in—how in the world have he ended up in the Potions classroom, of all places?—but then again it hadn't been entirely his fault. He hadn't known to expect another attack.

Harry shook his head, dismissing the thoughts. He was safe, in a warm room full of people he liked; he could worry later. Stepping fully through the portrait's opening and into the room, he scanned the room for familiar faces. Sure enough, Hermione and Ron were occupying one of the couches near the fire, looking rather content. Harry wasn't quite certain that he should disrupt the moment, and made to walk towards the stairs to his dorm—then his decision was altered as Hermione caught his eyes and waved him over.

Sinking into an armchair next to the couch, Harry spread out his legs and sighed happily. He had a nasty cramp in his back from falling asleep on the stone floor of Snape's classroom, but it was slowly working its way out. Meeting his friend's eyes, he gave a vaguely feline grin.

"Hello, Harry," Hermione greeted pleasantly. Ron echoed the sentiment. Still, Harry could feel a slight guilty feel hanging around his friends, and decided to prod.

"So, what have you two been conspiring about on this lovely evening?" Harry said lightly, stretching his arms over his head and leaning back. As both his friends gifted him with expressions of awkward reluctance, he knew immediately that he had been the topic of discussion.

"Well," Hermione started, voice apprehensive, "we were just wondering," and here Ron elbowed her, "fine, _I_ was just wondering where you went after leaving the Great Hall."

"I took a walk around the grounds," he lied fluidly. "Fresh air did me some good. I just never really thought I'd be back here again, I guess. This place is still like a home to me, and coming back was a bit overwhelming. I suppose I have to thank you for making me come, Hermione."

That diffused the situation as well as he'd hoped, as Hermione's concerned look gave way to a beaming grin, and Ron rolled his eyes. "I knew you'd thank me later," she said, sounding almost ecstatic. "We still have so much to learn, and this extra year will really be beneficial in the long run."

"Thanks a lot, Harry," Ron said lowly, "you've gotten her started again."

Hermione cuffed him gently over the head, not even faltering in her this-year's-education-might-be-all-that-stands-between-you-and-unemployment rant, the very same one that had proven so effective in motivating the boys to attend Hogwarts. Finally Ron interrupted with a, "Look, Hermione, we're already back at Hogwarts, you've won, we need no more convincing, you are truly the Mistress of all things insightful or whatever."

The brunette grinned. "Just making sure you knew."

Harry grinned at his friends' antics, glad of the distraction they provided. Later, there would be restless sleep and worry in store for him, more nightmares and panicked thoughts—for that moment, he was content to sit and banter and laugh until Hermione deemed it time for sleeping.

.........................

To Hermione, the proceeding week veritably flew by.

She'd always enjoyed school, enjoyed the learning and experience she gained there, and even above that loved being able to spend time with her best friends. Out in the wizarding world, who knew where they might all end up—but in Hogwarts she saw them every day without fail. And, true, at first she had been a little worried that the newly instated eighth year might not be as beneficial as the previous ones, especially considering the fact that Headmistress McGonagall had announced her choice late, giving the professors little time to prepare. Despite that, however, Hermione found that almost all of her classes were everything she'd hoped they might be.

Almost all of her classes, that is, because, of course, the end of the war had not brought out sunshine and daisies in Professor Snape. He was the same snarky, Gryffindor hating professor she had grown up learning from, which meant that the learning she gained was coupled with mockery and disdain. But that, at least, she was used to, and after a while Potions class became something nearly enjoyable, even though neither Harry nor Ron had taken the advanced course with her.

The only other real disappointment in her schedule had been Transfiguration under the newly appointed Professor DeWitt, who might have gotten along exceedingly well with the previous Ministry-appointed professor, Dolores Umbridge. DeWitt, however, lacked Umbridge's cruelty and prying tendencies, though both women shared a hatred of anything hands-on and a distinct love for textbooks.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was most decidedly shaping up to be Hermione's favorite class. Professor Lupin had lost none of his brilliance over time; indeed, the acceptance of his lupine condition seemed to have fueled the man to new heights. The werewolf's lesson plans were ingenious, and carried out brilliantly—he had an instinctive skill for teaching, and made even the dullest topics well worth paying attention to.

Hermione, in short, was thus far having the best year of her life. Unfortunately, the same could not always be said of her male friends.

Ron, somehow, was already in over his head. At her prompting, he'd grudgingly signed up for a far wider range of classes than he had previously attended. The experience, she'd argued, would serve him well—and it would, providing that he survived the year. Work and Ron had never gotten along very well, and the additional studying appeared to be making the Weasley increasingly miserable.

It was, however, Harry whom she worried over the most. He was mostly behaving perfectly like himself, laughing and joking and skipping homework to go flying, but every now and then she caught the barest hint of some alien behavior in her friend. Hermione was vastly intelligent, and as such it bothered her that she was completely unable to categorize her friend's actions. She could not truly express the minute differences in words, save to say that she sensed them—and, though it was clear something was on Harry's mind, he had not yet approached her to tell her what that might be.

Truly puzzling was Harry's apparent tenseness in doing things that had once been second nature to him. Ron had talked her into watching them practice Quidditch two days previously, and, though the aerial maneuvers had done little to spark her interest, she had been hugely intrigued by the wary glance Harry cast his broomstick before taking to the sky. And, though DADA had always been Harry's favorite class, he'd taken to shooting worried glances at Professor Lupin every now and then, though the moon was nowhere close to full.

Knowing Ron would think nothing of the minor changes in their friend, she'd taken it upon herself to discover what was ailing their famous friend.

Had she known then the scale of was she was attempting, even Hermione might have been discouraged.

.........................

Over the grounds of Hogwarts, a waxing moon was setting.

The air which filtered in through the open window was cool, though not yet cold enough to necessitate the closing of said window. Sitting within the shadowy confines of his four-poster bed, drapes shut around him, Harry listened pensively to the breeze ruffling the window's curtains. He drew one leg closer to his body, reveling in the cold.

It was well past the time he probably should have been asleep, as he knew daybreak was no more than a few hours away, but Harry Potter could not bring himself to rest. He had decisions to make, thinking to do, and he'd put those things off more than long enough.

Absentmindedly, he shifted his ever-present metal flask from hand to hand, listening to the familiar sloshing of liquid within. He'd been using the stuff for long enough to gauge the levels left within—the metal container was nearly empty. Could he afford to replenish it here?

He shook his head. Even if he did manage to spirit some of the liquid away without anyone noticing, he would be sacrificing quality for convenience's sake, and it had been impressed upon him that he should never do any such thing. Getting more of his own was a painstaking process, yes, but worth it in the end.

Then the first of his decisions was easy to make. He needed to go out tomorrow night anyway—he would pick up what he required along the way. It would be only too easy to stake out an abandoned room for his purposes.

Listening to waves of liquid crashing quietly into walls of metal, Harry moved his body into a more comfortable position and surrendered himself to thought.

.........................

"Harry," Hermione asked for what was probably the fifth time over one dinner, "are you sure you're all right?"

Harry rolled his eyes and gazed levelly at his friend. "'Mione, yes, I'm fine. I was fine the last time you asked, I'm fine now, and I likely will be the next time as well. Is there something bothering you?"

"You're being quiet." And pale, and shifty, Hermione added mentally, but she did not voice the thought. The boys were already sharing glances of annoyance mixed with amusement when they thought her back was turned; any additional observations would likely have the whole topic discarded as paranoia on Hermione's part.

With a quirk of his lip and a raise of his eyebrows, Harry said, "You were talking, Hermione. I was listening. When you're done, if I think of anything to say, I'll say it. 'S called conversation." He then proceeded to stick out his tongue immaturely and return to eating his food.

"Hermione's just working on her motherly instincts, Harry," Ron said lightly. "'Cause you know how thrilled she is that we'll be handling baby Blast-Ended Skrewts in Care next week."

"'Course, the 'experience'," Harry emphasized this word particularly, as it had become a regular in Hermione's rants, "of raising the bloody things the first time around was just so fulfilling."

"Maybe we'll learn something worthwhile this time around," Hermione said haughtily. Then, noticing her friends' expressions, she conceded, "It is far more likely that we'll just be singed and clawed, though."

"Have you seen Hagrid since school started, mate?" Ron asked. "I thought maybe we could stop by later for tea. No cakes, mind you, I've not lost my mind yet, but tea." The red-head then leaned in closer before saying conspiratorially, "If we used your invisibility cloak, Harry, we could go tonight. Hagrid wouldn't mind."

Hermione, rather than looking at Ron while this was said, had been casting a cursory glance at Harry. It was because of this that she noticed, just for a split second, a flash of something like panic in Harry's eyes.

She was half-way tempted to leave the situation as it was and see how things played out—and if it meant revealing Harry's new secret, it might be worth it—but Hermione was, first and foremost, a loyal friend. She was smart enough to know that without any interference, Harry would be forced to make up some uncharacteristic excuse, which would get Ron on his case. So, speaking casually, Hermione said, just as quietly as Ron, "Ronald, we're eighteen. That's a bit old to be running around the castle at night under an invisibility cloak, don't you think? We could just go tomorrow afternoon like normal, civil people rather than imposing on Hagrid's hospitality in the middle of the night."

Harry and Ron met each other's eyes and shrugged as if to say, "It's Hermione, what are we going to do about it," but Hermione didn't let that faze her. She'd had more than enough thanks in the brief light of gratitude in Harry's emerald-colored eyes.

She didn't know what was going on with her old friend, but she vowed to remedy that situation soon. Harry was a good liar now, yes, but she could still read him like a book through his eyes, and she knew it wouldn't be long now before her friend had to confide in _someone_. And, with a little careful planning and questioning, she knew she would be able to make herself that person.

.........................

The Gryffindor Common Room was quiet.

Just up the stairs, where the dorms lay, rested nearly all of the eighth year Gryffindor boys, fast asleep in their beds as morning loomed ever closer. Had anyone thought to pull back the drapes of the beds and check on their sleeping inhabitants, they would be met with the sight of four sprawled, snoring teenaged boys.

It might have taken an earthquake to wake Ron Weasley—certainly he had not seemed to notice the sound of someone stumbling around the dorm in the dark, not even when that someone bumped into an end table while groping blindly for a wand.

Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who happened to be somewhat less clothed than their red-headed yearmate, and also happened to be sleeping in the same bed, had most definitely not been woken by the sound of a zipper sliding open, and something being extracted from a worn suitcase.

As chance had it, Neville Longbottom, the lightest sleeper of the four, had been plagued by nightmares and chosen that night to down a certain amount of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Because of this, the ray of light let into the room by the door sliding open had done nothing to undermine his rest; he continued to sleep evenly as the door clicked back shut.

Harry Potter, grateful for his stealth training in the previous year, had found it all too easy to leave the room full of his sleeping classmates, though he had been slightly impeded by the dark. He'd not even bothered to take his invisibility cloak—the thing would likely hinder him rather than help him. Once the light of the dying embers settled in the Common Room's fireplace had met his eyes, moving silently had been even easier for Harry. Crossing the abandoned Common Room without making enough noise to wake his whole house had been a simplistic enough thing.

Upon reaching the exit of the Gryffindor rooms, Harry coaxed the portrait open and stepped out into the halls. Moving quickly, being careful to keep to the shadows where ever possible, Harry had set off towards the forest-facing entrance of the school.

.........................

Severus Snape had not become a spy for nothing. Admittedly, it would not have been his first choice of professions, but he could at least some claim some modicum of skill in all the required skills—stealth, intelligence, guile, and, of course, certain powers of observation. It was because of this last trait that, casting a cursory glance towards Harry Potter in the Great Hall that evening, Snape had noticed an oddness to the boy. Outwardly, he looked normal enough; the change seemed to be mostly in how he held himself, shoulders slightly hunched and back ramrod straight. Every now and then, whenever the Gryffindor thought no one was watching, he allowed some strange combination of emotions into his eyes, emotions Severus Snape had seen more than enough times to correctly interpret. It then became a matter of finding out just why the so-called Golden Boy was feeling guilty, exhausted and restrained—though Severus did not know the boy well enough to guess, he knew almost instinctively that patrolling the corridors that evening might just reveal something.

_Something_ was not an adequate word, he considered as he lurked within a shadow, watching Potter's movements throughout the hall. The Gryffindor had ceased trying to hide anything, no doubt thinking himself alone; his entire body was tensed, and his movements were, suprisingly enough, silent and efficient. The boy was not out for a stroll in the moonlight, but no doubt moving with purpose, likely to meet up with some of his irritating friends or (and Snape couldn't help but be amused by the thought) a secret girlfriend. Severus Snape's smiles were rare, but he allowed himself a grin as he stepped into the corridor and enunciated clearly, "Well, well, well, Mr. Potter. What ever might you be doing out of bed at this late hour?"

The boy spun, lowering his center of gravity as he did so. The Gryffindor's right hand raised, clenched to a fist, before he seemed to realize who he was facing. "Oh," Potter said in an inexplicably rough voice, relaxing visibly, though clearly he was still prepared for physical combat. Had Potter learned to fight? "It's just you." Snape's grin faded and his fingers grabbed at his wand, a quiet _lumos_ filling the hallway with light.

For just a moment, as the light reflected on Potter's eyes, the tell-tale sparkle of emerald was absent—instead Snape could swear he'd seen the faintest glimmer of silver clouding the boy's irises. By the time the Potions Master had managed to blink and look again, all hint of the metallic tone had gone. The boy looked at him with a expression just short of hatred, and his posture mirrored that feeling. "Who might you have been expecting, Mister Potter?" Snape's voice was very nearly a hiss, but the boy refused to flinch. "Even one with your insufficient mental capacities should be capable of realizing that, as a student, you should not be wandering about so late at night."

"Professor," Potter spat the title with all the force of an insult, "I'm legally old enough to be out of school at this very moment if I should choose to leave, I'm adequately prepared to handle anything that might or might not chose to attack me at night, and—" here he paused, and Snape realized the stretch he underwent at that moment was designed to hide an involuntary shudder, "—and," the boy continued, voice slightly weaker, "if you want to avoid a catastrophe, you might just let me go this once."

Snape frowned, and the boy shifted uneasily, his left hand moving into the professor's line of view for just a moment. Snape lunged forward, fingers clenching around the boy's left wrist and dragging it into sight, only to find that he had guessed correctly—the brief shine of reflected light had indeed been from the illumination of Severus' spell bouncing off a knife blade. Potter sagged in his grip, clearly caught in the act. "A knife, Potter?" Snape asked. "What—"

Severus put two and two together and got a rather unlikely four, memories sliding into place. Harry Potter, pale and slightly unsteady, walking out of the Great Hall—and then a sleeping Potter in his dungeons, with color in his cheeks but no proper explanation as to how he came to be where he was. A metallic flask designed for potions stored in Potter's back pocket. Silver in his eyes, a knife in his hand, a voice made rough by something other than shouting. Guilt, exhaustion, restraint—and, in hindsight, _hunger_. Severus Snape smiled again, a predatory smile he'd not had an excuse to use in some time. The Golden Boy of Gryffindor, the Boy-Who-Lived, the savior of the wizarding world: who would have believed it? And he had seen it first. Severus was not a noble man, especially not where the insufferable brat named Harry Potter was concerned; he was going to exploit this just as much as he could. "Well," he said sharply, coldly, noticing with great satisfaction that Potter was no longer willing to meet his eyes, "this _is_ interesting. I wonder if the Wizarding World would be intrigued to know that their dear precocious savior, their hero, is a _vampire_."

**If you got this far, please leave me a review. Did you see the end coming—if so, when did you guess? Or, if you don't want to discuss that, feel free to tell me about the clouds outside your window or your pet rock or whatever. Just drop me a review so I know you're there. Reviews make me write faster.... and just as soon as I have the third chapter started, I'll be posting the second. **

**Also: If any of you lovely readers happen to know the meaning of the title of this story (and don't just Google it, please, that ruins all the fun) tell me what you think it is in your review. If you get it right, I will be seriously impressed—anyone who guesses correctly gets the next chapter dedicated to them. :)**


	2. Unless you share them with everyone

**Hey, Song here the with the newest chapter of Dicentra Formosa. Now, usually, I try to keep these author's notes short, but I have a few things to cover, so bare with me.**

**First, I was seriously honored by the number of encouraging reviews I got—without them, this chapter wouldn't have been finished nearly as fast. I have written a review reply section at the end of this monster of a chapter, so if you've reviewed, I've said hi. :)**

**Second, my pen name is no longer DemonSong10—I'm now The Demon's Song. Just a heads up there.**

**Third, just to clear up a misconception, the flask in Harry's pocket does not contain blood. I can see why you might think that, but it actually holds Blood Replenishing Potion. Hopefully this chapter clears things up a bit, and the next will be even more informative.**

**And lastly, this chapter goes out to my botanically gifted reviewers: Rion Kerr, Foret Interdite, taurwen, BetaForRent (you got close enough :D), and dracosbaby08. I was honestly surprised that so many of you got this. For those who didn't know, the dicentra formosa plant, better known as Bleeding Hearts, are a kind of flower. Their significance in the story will be explained.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, not going to be, not happy about it. **

There was half a moment's silence, and Potter used the time rather effectively, to Snape's disappointment. He'd very much hoped to catch the boy off-guard, gasping and gaping like a beached fish, if only to be able to recall that image until his dying day. Instead, Potter utilized the moment to compose himself, expression shifting to one of skeptical reserve. It was a good mask, much as it pained Snape to admit it, but Severus Snape was a master of facades by this point, and he processed Potter's expression as just that: a disguise, nothing more.

Then the moment had ended, and the boy was saying with just the right note of disbelieving concern for his professor's sanity, "Sir, I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about—I'm certainly not a vampire." Potter raised one eyebrow slightly, and every furrow the action raised in his brow denoted puzzlement.

Snape merely gazed at him condescendingly. The entire situation was bordering on ridiculous; Snape had been perfecting the art of deceit before the Gryffindor had even drawn his first breath, and yet the boy was actually attempting to lie his way out of things. Severus knew, and had known for many years, how to read exactly what people _meant_ rather than listening to what they said. He knew the signs of lies, the telltale intakes of breath or the minute shifts in body language or expression that could give away even the most practiced of liars. Potter, he had no doubt, was more than aware that his professor knew these things—Snape had certainly caught him in lies frequently enough for the boy to have realized. What was Potter playing at? None of this he voiced, however, deigning instead to bark out, "Don't insult my intelligence, Potter. I know what I have seen."

"Clearly you don't!" There—that tinge of defensiveness—Snape almost had the boy. The Gryffindor recovered quickly, though, running a hand through his already abysmally disarranged hair. "Professor, it's late. Have you been sleeping at all lately?"

"In case you had forgotten, Mister Potter, you are walking the hallways at night carrying a knife. This is not the invention of a brain addled by sleep, or lack thereof, as you were no doubt implying. You," here Snape shook the wrist he still held captive, making the blade glint in his wand's light once more, "are holding the evidence of that in your hand."

"Sir," Potter said, redoubling his efforts, "this is for cutting plants. Not for hunting, or whatever else you might be picturing." The argument was a valiant attempt, or rather one more example of Gryffindors plainly not knowing when to give up, but half the battle had been fought for Snape before he'd even seen the boy. It was clear that despite the clarity of the boy's tone and his continued articulation that Potter was completely exhausted—the boy had still not had the presence of mind to straighten his stooped shoulders.

Nevertheless, Snape carried on, voice taunting, "So you wish me to believe, Potter, that you were lying innocently in your bed when, thwarted in an attempt to sleep, a situation arose that required the use of some form of vegetation. And logically, in this situation, you rose from your bed, gathered up the rather intricate knife you hold in your fingers, and stole away from your dormitory in the dark of night to gain the necessary items. Now tell me, boy—in the unlikely scenario that I have presented to you, what sort of plants would tempt you so?"

"The trip was not the accident you suggest," Potter said, voice a degree short of scathing. "I had deliberately meant to go out and gather plants tonight." It was as much the way the boy spoke his next words that tipped Snape off as it was what the boy actually said—the Gryffindor continued on in a rushed tone that practically sang of long hours of memorization. "I need the leaves and flowers of night blooming jasmine, and four stems from the dicentra formosa plant."

Much as Severus had hoped, the name of the plants in question cemented his argument. The mistake on Potter's part had been an amateur one, which pleased the Potions Master to no end. "I do find it interesting, Potter, that you should so desperately need several key ingredients of the _Blood Replenishing_ Potion." The boy flinched at that, just barely, and glanced away. "Or had you forgotten you were speaking to a Potions Master?" Snape sneered, and the expression held an undertone of victory. The Gryffindor's mouth opened, but Snape quickly cut him off. "Don't bother denying this further. Any more arguments from you will be no more than blatant lies, and I do not wish to waste my time on such frivolities."

The corridor, for some time afterwards, was silent, save for the faint buzzing issuing from Severus' wand. Finally, Potter wrenched his left hand out of Snape's grip and relocated the knife to a holster hooked on his forearm. Only once his right hand had firmly lodged in his pant's pockets did he turn to Snape; his now-tense shoulders were a testament to his defeat. "And now you know," Potter said, voice husky and tired once again. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Do to you, Potter? Surely you don't believe me foolish enough to harm the savior of the wizarding world _directly_—I know my newly cleansed reputation could not withstand such a blow." The statement was eloquent, yes, but Snape knew the boy had caught onto the main premise—the Gryffindor's eyes narrowed as the word directly was enunciated. "In fact, I would be perfectly content to take this secret to the grave. I am human, however, and thus fallible—I would not be surprised if I _forgot_ myself and let something _slip_."

"No one will ever believe you, Snape. It's your word against mine, and, as you've just pointed out, I'm the wizarding world's poster boy." There it was, the patented Potter arrogance, just the same type James Potter had valued so highly. It mattered little that the boy had spoken the words wearily, as though his status was a fate he had long resigned himself to—Snape knew that somewhere under that mask, the coddled little brat was relishing the chance to reassert his status.

"You forget that in my long years of service against the Dark Lord, I have met a wide variety of people. And, difficult as this may be for you to comprehend, not all of them allow their lives to revolve solely around you. Many of them would very nearly worship me for the information I have gained tonight, Potter; some of them have found themselves in positions in which their word will never be doubted. If I should happen—completely unintentionally, mind you—to reveal your little secret in conversation with this individuals, Mister Potter, your beloved fan club will do nothing to save you."

Potter mumbled something under his breath, and even Snape's acute auditory perception could not make coherent words out of it. The message was made clear by the rest of the boy's person, however—the fingers of his left hand, resting on his arm just below his knife, trembled slightly, and his eyes were boring holes into Snape's carotid arteries. "Cease contemplating my death, Potter. If you were listening more carefully, you might have heard me say that I genuinely do not wish to shout your secret from the rooftops, as the saying goes." At this Snape shifted one corner of his lip upwards in a manner that contradicted what he was saying aloud entirely. "In fact, all of what happens next depends entirely on your actions, Potter."

Eyes dull, Potter said in a surprisingly monotone voice, "What would you have me do, then?"

And what a question it was! Snape had waited years for just such an opportunity as this one. Ever since he'd seen the brat seven years ago, viewed James Potter's carbon copy for the first time and _known_ what the boy would become, Severus Snape had been waiting. Before that, even—every offense he'd ever suffered at the hands of the self-proclaimed Marauders flashed before his eyes in that moment. He'd always known that somehow, someday, he would have a chance to avenge the misdeeds of James Potter—and perhaps his revenge would be of the posthumous variety, but revenge it was nevertheless. This was it, his opening, his chance. The wellbeing of Harry Potter, James Potter's son, was entirely dependent upon his whim.

A lesser man might have danced, or sung, or grinned, but Severus Snape engaged in none of these acts even in his victory. Settling for his best glare and a smirk, Snape said smoothly, "I assume that you were leaving the grounds for a dual purpose—hunting as well as the gathering of Potions ingredients?" The boy clenched his teeth, but he nodded sedately enough. "Proceed with your hunt, then." _That_ appeared to surprise the Gryffindor, breaking Potter's impassive facade at last. "Surely, Potter, you do not think me moronic enough to willingly place myself in close quarters with a hungry vampire."

"Close quarters?" Potter's voice was insolent, as was the lazy, "sir," he tacked half-heartedly onto the end of the question.

"Correct, Potter, you've proven yourself capable of accurately parroting my words—I suppose you have a modicum of intelligence in you that I had not previously noticed." The insult slid off Snape's tongue with the ease of practice, experience made all the sweeter by the fact that Potter bit his tongue to stop himself from retorting. "You will hunt," Snape informed the boy, "and when you are done you will go directly to my classroom in the dungeons. We will discuss the conditions of your service there."

The boy lingered a moment, and Snape commanded, "Go." Then, just to twist the proverbial knife: "Enjoy your last few pathetic hours of freedom, Potter."

Fire burned in emerald eyes, and Snape could see that it hurt the boy to restrain himself. With a heavy exhale, Potter turned on his heels and quickly strode away from his Potions Professor. Three steps later, he was swallowed by shadow as he exited the range of Severus' lighting spell and entered the darkness of the hallway beyond.

.........................

By the time Snape next saw the Gryffindor, the sun was well on its way to rising.

This really did not surprise the Potions Master overmuch; he had expected that Potter, taken by a juvenile need for revenge, might delay his arrival in the hopes of denying Snape a few extra hours of rest. Perhaps the boy had even hoped that in arriving near sunrise, he might find his Potions Professor soundly asleep and thus escape the unpleasant episode that logically would follow. If that was indeed the case, Potter was a fool—Snape's spying career had frequently had him up at all strange hours of the night, until sleep had become more of a luxury for the professor than a necessity.

That did not mean that it was not a luxury he enjoyed, and Severus had little patience for those who sought to waste his time; when the boy finally did arrive, Snape intended to be all the more difficult because of his extended wait.

So it was that as Potter slipped through the door of his Potions classroom, Snape did not act to illuminate the room or make his presence clear. Let the boy wallow in the dark for some little while, it would harm nothing but perhaps his pride. It did surprise Severus, however, when the boy cast no lighting spell of his own, rather choosing to cross the room and silently sink into the chair at his usual brewing station.

Severus, whose eyesight, much like the rest of his senses, had been carefully honed by years of practice, had no difficulties in viewing the boy even through the dark. The exhaustion which had previously ruled the boy was clearly gone, as were the tremors—Potter's posture was alert and energized, though Snape was pleased to see the physical manifestations of fear lingering about the teenager's form. The Potions Master was unable to make out the Gryffindor's eyes, but he knew that the hint of silver would have been banished entirely, leaving nothing but deep green in its wake.

For about ten minutes, neither person within the Potions classroom moved; Severus, leaning against a wall in the most shadowed portion of his room, did not so much as twitch a muscle, and the boy remained perfectly still within his seat as well. No _lumos_ lit up the darkness, and not a word left the lips of either of the room's current inhabitants.

Finally, Potter broke the stillness, stretching upwards and acknowledging dully, "Professor Snape."

Internally, Severus seethed. The boy had known he was there the entire time, and had said nothing; Potter had not been stewing in confusion as the Potions Master had hoped, but rather making himself comfortable inside Snape's classroom. Externally, he showed no sign of emotion, rather choosing to step away from both the wall and his comforting shadows and flick his wand precisely. The unspoken spell filled the room with light, and Potter at last turned to face the source of the glow. "Potter," Snape said, voice filled with all the usual derision. "I had begun to wonder if you were truly foolish enough to not obey my summons. Had you elected to avoid our meeting, my decisions might have been made even harsher."

The boy shrugged, but did not offer his apologies. When it was clear that Snape did not intend to proceed without some justification, Potter repeated his previous movement and said lightly, "The hunt took a little longer than usual, Professor." At Snape's raised eyebrow, the boy's lip twitched in a manner that suggested he was holding back a grin. "I needed more blood than I normally do," Potter clarified, "so that when this meeting makes me contemplate killing you later, I won't have any added temptation."

It was admittedly peculiar to hear the so-called Golden Boy speak so lightly of murder—even in the midst of war, when Potter had been no stranger to dealing in death, the boy had had qualms about using his power to cause injury. He knew that the Gryffindor's undead status would inevitably have changed him, but he was still not utterly prepared for the change. Nevertheless, Potter's threat did little to ruffle the Potions Master. "Even if you were capable of killing me, Mister Potter," Snape said, "we both know that any attempt to do so would have been undertaken earlier, when I first accused you. And such an attempt would have had all of your traditional Gryffindor recklessness behind it; you would not have warned me of an attack, as you know that I am stronger than you, but rather you would have attempted to take me unawares. As this is not the case, I think we both know that you do not mean to kill me, Potter."

Once again Potter muttered under his breath, and this time Snape almost made sense of the words. It sounded almost as though the boy had said, "But I should." Then, audibly, the Gryffindor said nonchalantly, "I thought we were here to discuss your silence, sir, and not my preferred methods of murder."

Severus allowed a brow to tilt upwards, and smirked. "Are you really so eager to enter into my service, Potter?"

"The sooner this starts, the sooner I can get this whole thing over with," Potter said, and his voice was resigned. "So, how do you wish to humiliate me today? Shall I throw a Quidditch match to your precious Slytherins? Am I to tap dance on the Gryffindor table tomorrow at breakfast? Or had you planned something on a more major scale than that?"

"I should be insulted, Potter," Snape said dryly. "You truly think that I would squander an opportunity like this on childish pranks as your father was wont to do?" The usual jolt of anger raced through the boy's eyes at the mention of his father, though the Gryffindor schooled the emotion back into deceptive dullness in mere moments. "No," Severus continued, "I think not. Your payment for my silence will be no quick ordeal, Potter. From this moment out, you are to obey my every command. If I should order you to do something, you will carry it out without question or delay."

Severus could see the instant the repercussions of this became clear to the boy, could see his eyes alight once more with some sort of furious glow. Every muscle on the boy's person went tight with rage."I will not be your _slave_," Potter said at a hiss, standing upright abruptly and nearly tipping his chair over with the movement. "I won't!"

Snape grinned somewhat sadistically at that. "I think you will find that you have no choice in the matter, Potter," he informed the boy. "Unless, of course, you wish for the Wizarding World to know that their Golden Boy thirsts after blood instead of pumpkin juice." He could see the realization of this sink in, could see defeat seep into the boy's form; victory was even sweeter than he had anticipated. "Now, sit down, Potter," Snape said, and watched defiance slip across the boy's eyes. After a long moment, the Gryffindor's fists clenched, and he sank back into his chair. "Very good," he said, just to exacerbate the boy's situation.

"I am a student," Potter reminded Snape through clenched teeth, "and, as you're so keen to point out, the Wizarding World's bloody savior. I don't have time to bow to your every whim if I'm to complete school, and, furthermore, it will look suspicious. And since I'm Harry Potter, any hint of suspicious behavior will make the front page of every newspaper this side of the Atlantic. Someone will notice, and then my secret will be out anyway. So tell me again, why should I listen to you?"

Snape's grin faded at that—the boy had a point. At last, the Potions Master said, "Your service with me will be restricted to certain hours of certain days. I don't care what your excuse is, but so long as you are convincing, there will be no reason for anyone to suspect the nature of our deal. And as for why you should listen to me, keep this in mind: even if you slip, and the Wizarding World does become aware, you will have had a few extra months of peace. Cross me now, Potter, and I can promise you the entire magical community will know of your status by noon."

There was a pause in which Potter seemed to be pondering his options, and more than once the boy made as if to rise before seeming to think better of it. "Certain hours of certain days," Potter repeated at last, looking as yet undecided. "And these would be which hours of which days?"

"Starting after dinner on this next Monday, you will report to this room on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. You will complete whatever menial work I have found for you, and you will cater to whatever impulse might strike me. At midnight, you will be free to leave." Seeing the boy's mouth open in protest, Snape cut him off quickly, "I am being generous, Potter. When your schooling ends, you will find me to be a significantly harsher master, and as such I recommend you enjoy the relatively light punishment while it is available to you."

The boy's fists were clenched tightly enough to draw blood, and Snape watched in fascination as a drop of the red liquid rolled down his palm to splatter onto the floor. "You know I can't agree to this. I refuse to be a slave."

"Think for a moment, Potter," Snape said, growing irritated by the boy's ongoing defiance. "At the heart of the matter, the question is this: which do you value more, your pride or your life and continued wellbeing?"

For a moment, the Gryffindor raised his eyes to bore into those of the Potions Master, and for that instant Snape could see exactly how much it would pain the boy to sacrifice his freedom; then, sharply, Potter twisted his head and averted his eyes, the entire movement extremely jarring. He said nothing, but then, he did not have to. Snape's smirk returned at tenfold its previous intensity.

"Remember to devise an excuse for the time you will be spending here, Potter. It would not do to have your moronic cohorts guessing something that they would be better off not knowing." The boy still did not speak, eyes drilling holes in the stone floor. "Look at me, Potter." When the command was obeyed, Snape went on, "If any word of our agreement reaches the school, you will find yourself revealed more quickly than you might expect. Understood?" The Gryffindor nodded, and Snape sneered. "Now leave, Potter. I will see you on Monday night."

That command Potter followed with aplomb, nearly shooting out of his chair. The pace at which he set out for the door was just short of a sprint, and he nearly wrenched the portal off its hinges when he threw it open. The wooden door slammed shut violently behind him.

Alone, Severus allowed himself the grin he had been fighting to restrain. "I hope that you are seeing this," he whispered, granting himself a moment to do something so foolish as to speak to one departed. "I hope you are looking down on this and cursing yourself. This is to be my revenge on you, James Potter, and I hope you watch every second of it."

No answer came, but Severus had not expected one. With a whispered _nox_, he left his now darkened classroom and set off towards his chambers.

Vengeance, as always, looked to be sweet.

.........................

It was only once Harry was sure he was out of his professor's hearing range that he allowed himself to lose control.

He did not scream, though he almost wished to, instead letting out a hiss from deep in the back of his throat. The hiss morphed into words, an eerie mix of English and Parseltongue that solely Harry, as the only known speaker of the snake language, could fully understand; any witness, however, would have understood at least the fact that the words were anything but complimentary. As the intensity of this garbled speech increased, so did the speed of the Golden Boy, until the Gryffindor was all but running headlong away from the dungeons, cursing Hogwarts' Potion Master as he went.

Stealth was no longer a priority for Harry, though it likely should have been—it was immature and foolish to abandon his own safety merely because of hurt pride and a rising temper, but nevertheless some part of Harry wanted to make noise. He wanted to be caught, wanted to have someone, something to yell at, someone at whom he could let out his frustrations. Harry wanted a reason to get angry, any reason at all, so that he could channel everything away from Snape and into something menial. He wanted to be found out after curfew, if only so that he could throw a tantrum in the general direction of his captor, if only to have someone to hate other than himself...

Harry stopped short at this thought, breath coming heavy in his throat, and eyes wide. He hated himself?

And some small part of his mind whispered back, _yes. You do hate yourself at this moment. You've been so many things (freak; boy; wizard, Harry, you're a wizard; Potter; Golden Boy; savior; my dear boy; Potty; little one; __**Harry**__) but you've never been a slave. Even with the prophesy ruling your life, even with the weight of the world on your shoulders, even when you felt like nothing more than a puppet, you have never been a __**slave**__. And now you intend to give away your freedom simply because you fear the Wizarding World thinking badly of you._

_It's not that_, Harry argued, aware that he was fighting himself and genuinely not caring._ It's not that I'm afraid of public opinion. There are rules, things I can't do, things I can't say, and I can not break this rule. Not alone._

_So do what you need to do. Run to the owls now, write the letter that you know you need to __send. Contact your progenitor. You don't need to do this alone. You have friends, you have allies, you have a world at your back, and Severus Snape is just one man. Get the full weight of your people behind you, and Snape will be crushed, and your secret buried with him. You know you should; you know your precious rules say that this is the right course of action._

_The __**correct**__ course of actions_, Harry amended. _Not the __**right**__ one. If I set that fate on him, I will have killed him. And Snape is right; if I was going to kill him, I would have done so right after his epiphany, right after that knowing glint entered those damnable eyes of his. I would've pulled out my knife or my wand and struck him down there, if I meant to kill him at all. No, I will not have his murder on my shoulders. I will not bare the guilt of his death._

_You are a coward_—Harry knew he was having a bad night when his own subconscious was insulting him—_and you are signing your own death certificate if you do this. It's him or you, and you know that. How long do you think he will be appeased by your servitude? Oh, sure, for a little while it will amuse him to have you groveling at his feet, but after that? When he grows bored of compliance? Will you strike another bargain then, lose a little more of yourself and believe it to be for your own good? What will he want of you when your slavery ceases to amuse, little one? You're already a slave—the question becomes, how much of your soul are you willing to sell for his silence?_

Harry lashed out at that, striking blindly with a clenched fist; his hand struck the cold stone of the wall beside him, and he could hear the bones within shattering. A sharp intake of breath was the only noise he made to betray his pain.

_Very good, little one, very smart. Hurt yourself further, go ahead. I am not tangible; you can not hit me. You are fighting with yourself and losing. What does that say of your sanity?_

The Gryffindor shut his eyes, already feeling the instinctual pull of magic towards the broken bones of his hand—it would mend itself much faster than the average human injury, though it would be sore as hell in the morning. _Shut up_, he thought wearily. _I don't have time for this, or for you. If I want to go through with this, I will. I will handle being a slave. I will survive Snape. I will not be the cause of unnecessary death. So shut up and leave me alone._

There was no sound in the hallway, save for a faint crack as one of Harry's bones snapped back into place; there was no trace of the annoying mental voice in his head.

Breathing deeply, Harry opened his eyes and calmly walked the remainder of the distance to the Gryffindor tower.

.........................

Hermione heard the sound of the Fat Lady's portrait swinging open. It was a peculiar sensation, as she was more than half asleep—the sound of the portrait's slight squeak did not blend well with the near-dream she was having about textbooks and a dancing water buffalo. For a moment, she blearily attempted to process the sound, as well as the sound of shuffling footsteps that marked someone's passage across the Gryffindor common room, and almost ignored the slight noises in favor of slipping more deeply into sleep; then she sat bolt upright on the couch she was settled on, eyes flying open to meet a guilty-looking pair of emerald green optics.

Harry, it seemed, had finally returned.

Her friend looked somewhat surprised by her abrupt movement, pausing in mid-step to cast an eye over her pajama-clad form. It did not escape Hermione's notice that Harry, unlike herself, was both fully dressed and completely alert. Finally, in a tone that managed to be authoritative despite its lack of volume, Hermione asked, "What time is it?"

A sheepish grin passed over Harry's face, and he raised his left hand to run through his hair. "Near sunrise," he said, and Hermione realized his voice sounded worn, as though he had been shouting. "What are you doing here?"

Hermione held her gaze solidly to his as she said, "I woke up with the strangest feeling, like I knew that you were awake and out of bed. Once I talked the stairs into letting me go to the boys' dorms, I realized I was right. So I decided to sit down here and wait for you to get back in."

"I'm sorry I kept you awake, then," came the soft, gruff voice her friend had adopted. "I didn't think I would be out this late."

"Harry," Hermione said, trying to make her voice as gentle as possible, "would you mind telling me what you were doing out after curfew?"

Harry pulled a small bag out of a pocket, shaking it slightly to catch her attention. "Nothing sinister or idiotic," he said, and she could not quite make herself believe him. "I had to gather some plants in the moonlight."

Her brow furrowed at this. "What plants?" The strangest expression crossed Harry's face, a look that seemed to be a blend of haunted exhaustion and hunted wariness. Her friend averted his eyes and said nothing. She waited a moment, then gently said, "I see." Then, wistfully, vulnerably: "You used to trust me, Harry."

Harry's eyes lifted at that, and they softened upon meeting Hermione's gaze. "I still trust you, 'Mione, really I do." He lifted his right hand towards her, though she was never sure of what he meant to do with it; halfway through the movement he winced and allowed his hand to drop again.

Hermione reached out and wrapped her fingers delicately around his hand, raising it into her field of view—her jaw dropped when she saw its condition. "Your hand is bleeding," she said, though she'd nearly said mangled instead. Indeed, her friend's expression made it seem as though even her light touch was enough to cause him pain.

Moving his arm, Harry tugged the hand from hers, returning it to his side. "It's fine, Hermione. Really."

"That is not fine, Harry. You've broken at least one or two bones in your hand—you should be going to the hospital wing."

"At this time of the morning?" Seeming to notice that the late hour did little to dissuade his friend, Harry went on quickly, "Hermione, I wasn't joking, my hand will be fine. My magic is healing it already. You can check for yourself if you don't believe me."

Hermione, who knew of her friend's tendency to underplay injuries, lifted her wand out of her pocket and cast the only diagnostic spell she knew. The charm was far from professional in quality, but the quick scan was enough to tell her that Harry was correct; already bone cells were regrowing quickly, mending rifts and replacing weaker cells, and at that rate the bones would be healed in almost no time at all. She understood then the level of power her friend must have somehow reached—magic healing wounds without the aide of spells was practically unheard of in all but the strongest of wizards. Placing her wand back in her pocket, Hermione gave Harry a quick nod. "It will heal properly." Harry smiled at her then, a smile which faded slightly as she continued, "Will you at least tell me how you hurt it in the first place?"

Harry tightened his lips, eyes projecting regret, and she cut him short. "Please don't lie to me. Just tell me the truth, Harry."

"Hermione—," her friend started, before cutting himself short and beginning again, "the thing you have to understand is—well." He sighed briefly after the second pause, then went on, "The thing you have to understand is that there are something things I ought to tell you. And I want to tell you, don't misunderstand me, I hate keeping you in the dark. But the thing of it is this: I can't. I just can't. Not—not yet."

The faltering, awkward speech was admittedly not what she had been hoping for, but Hermione was willing to accept the roundabout apology for what it was. Reaching out, she pressed her hand gently into his arm. "I don't want you to feel pressured to tell me, Harry," she said, smiling at the boy she saw as a brother. "But when you can spill whatever secret this is, when you are free to speak, you know where to find me."

"Thanks," Harry said, and Hermione was surprised to find that the simple word was more than enough.

"No problem," she said, before pulling her hand away and yawning. "And now I think we both need some sleep. The sun is nearly up, and we won't be able to appreciate our classes later if we're dead tired all day long."

"'Night, Hermione," Harry said with a smile, before turning and moving to ascend the stairs leading to his dormitory.

"Goodnight, Harry," she called back, just as the boy was slipping out of view.

She knew it was most likely prying, but her curiosity had been piqued even further by Harry's reluctant admission. She'd not been wrong in her seeming paranoia; her friend was truly hiding something, something he couldn't tell her. But he wanted her to know, eventually at least, and that was about as much permission as she would ever get. Harry couldn't tell her, yes, but if she found out on her own, that was a different story altogether.

Hermione intended to learn exactly what Harry was being so secretive about, but that could wait until later. Just then, she planned to follow her own advice and get some well deserved rest.

.........................

Harry, like so many others before him, had noticed the peculiarities of the relativity of time.

On an average school day, for instance, a day over which no threat of servitude and displeased Potions Masters loomed, classes seemed practically interminable. Transfiguration with the idiotic DeWitt dragged on until Harry was positive he'd read enough documents concerning one transfiguration or another to last him a life time; Care of Magical Creatures, despite Hagrid's instruction, had begun to drag with the reintroduction of Blast Ended Skrewts; Herbology, Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts were tolerable, even somewhat fun, while Divination and Potions were generally less enjoyable; History of Magic was, as it always had been, less a class and more a school-approved nap time. In short, the school day, barring a few interesting classes, largely seemed inclined to never end.

When, however, holding up his end of Snape's bargain was looming overhead, the day seemed approximately three times shorter. This didn't really surprise Harry—it wouldn't be the first time nervousness had made time go by so much faster—but it did deprive him of the feeling of comfort he'd been trying to gain from the meager hours standing between him and Snape's sadism. Even worse, he'd barely even heard most of what his teachers had been saying, which meant that he'd had to ask Hermione for help with homework—when she had enquired as to why he was incapable of completing it himself, he'd had to fumble for an excuse, and the lie had not gone unnoticed.

The end result of this, then, was that Hermione, seated across from him at the Gryffindor table, was alternating between casting him inquisitive glances and lecturing him on the advantages of paying attention in class. Any brief pauses in these lectures were filled by Ron bemoaning the fact that the day had never seemed to end. Life, it appeared, was not without a sense of irony.

Dinner, though it had matched Hogwarts' usual standards, had appealed very little to Harry, as the Gryffindor's nerves had finally pushed him to the point of nausea. Admittedly, he had been hunting just the previous night, and as such he didn't really require much 'human food', but that didn't change the fact that being nauseous was never a pleasant sensation. Also, his lack of an appetite had successfully made Hermione and Ron aware of the fact that something was wrong, which was a topic he'd really been hoping to avoid.

"Really, Harry," Ron had just finished saying, "you're acting like you're off to your first Quidditch match all over again. Have you eaten anything, or have you just been pushing it around your plate?"

"I ate _something_," Harry stated somewhat indignantly.

"And what exactly was that something?" Hermione asked, looking slightly worried by her friend's behavior.

"There was some sort of pasta out, and I had a bit of sausage," he said defensively, proceeding to pile the rest of his now-mangled food into the center of his plate. The whole mixture was a rather unappetizing brown, which really wasn't doing much to combat his stomach's condition.

Ron snorted skeptically and leaned in on his elbows. "Right," the red-head said. "Spill. Whatever it is that's bothering you, you'd best just tell us and get it over with."

"There's nothing going on," Harry protested weakly, carving a frowning face into the island of mush that had once been proper food. Neither of his friends said anything, but both fixed him with loaded gazes, to which he responded with an innocent, "Really, there's nothing." Then: "Right, would you two stop giving me meaningful glances at the same time? It's starting to get creepy."

Ron dipped his fingers into his goblet and flicked droplets of pumpkin juice at Harry. "Harry," he said, dragging his friend's name out exaggeratedly, "if you're going to be a git, you at least have to tell us why."

"Fine," Harry said, sighing slightly. "Right after dinner ends, I plan to walk down to the dungeons, profess my love to Pansy Parkinson, and then run off with her to have little dog-faced babies, and my nerves are killing me."

Hermione, usually the picture of maturity amongst the three, chose that moment to utilize her spoon as a catapult, flicking a pea so that it bounced off Harry's forehead. When the green eyed boy cast her a surprised gaze, she merely shrugged and said, "You were being an idiot, Harry, but it would have been rude to reach across the table and smack you."

"Ah," Harry said sagely, "because hurling peas across tables is the height of proper etiquette."

"Exactly," Hermione retorted primly.

Ron, who had been gazing between the two in something like horror, chose that moment to speak. "I swear you two have the strangest conversations," and, after both gave him looks that vaguely resembled glares, "and I love you both for it."

"As well you should," Hermione said, standing. "I am going back to the Gryffindor tower," she informed her male friends. "Ron, you've still got homework to do, so if you plan on copying my work you'd better come along. You, Harry, are going to stay here until you've eaten an actual meal, and then you can catch us up—understand?"

"Yes, mum," both boys chimed simultaneously, each shooting Hermione matching grins as well.

The resident genius of Gryffindor merely rolled her eyes, used to her strange friends, and turned away from the table. "Hurry up, Ronald," she shot over her shoulder, and the red head shrugged his shoulders before moving to obey.

Harry waited until both his friends had exited the Great Hall before letting the grin drop from his face.

Giving up dinner as a lost cause, Harry shot a final, mournful glance at his plate-of-mush before shoving the dish away. A quick glance at the teacher's table informed Harry that Snape had either neglected to attend dinner or had already left—in either case, he would probably have to hurry so as to not incite the man's temper. Standing, Harry followed his friends' path to the door of the Great Hall, swinging it open and stepping quietly through.

He was off to sacrifice his freedom and spend about five hours in a room with a volatile spy.

....why did that not sound like a delightful and entertaining way to end the night?

.........................

If someone had told Severus Snape that one Harry Potter existed in a state of perpetual lateness, Snape would not have doubted them in the least. Potter's track record for arriving at classes in a timely matter was just short of abysmal, his tendencies leaning towards a dramatic rush to the necessary location just as he began to edge the line of being inexcusably late—and, as Potter was the savior of the Wizarding populous, very few ever sought to call the boy on these tendencies. Unluckily for Potter, Snape had always been one of these few.

Fortunately, at least where the Gryffindor was concerned, Potter's usual knock sounded on the Potions Master's classroom door a good ten minutes before Snape had expected the boy to arrive.

"Enter!" Snape called out coldly, raising his eyes from the essays he had been grading to watch the door raptly—Potter swung the wooden portal open, only to be met with the sight of pitch black eyes fixated on him like those of a predatory bird eying its prey. For the shortest moment, something in the boy seemed to rear up, taking the glance as a challenge, and in those moments the telltale shine of silver pooled under layers of emerald; then the Gryffindor seemed to force his eyes to dull, looking every inch the innocent schoolboy once more.

Irritated by the fact that Potter seemed to have genuinely lost all fear of him, Snape bit out, "Potter. Late as always, I see."

It was a lie, and they both knew it well. The indignant expression Severus had been expecting flared in the Gryffindor, and the boy opened his mouth as if to speak. Then, seeming to think better of it—and it bothered Snape that Potter was finally showing some signs of maturity, as the boy's juvenile taunts had always made arguments so much more amusing—Potter slid his jaw shut once more and fixed him with a skeptical glance.

"No brilliant retort, Potter? Pity." It was immediately evident that neither submissiveness nor silence came naturally to the boy; barely a minute into his service, and the Gryffindor was already forced to bite his own lip in an effort to hold back an answering quip. "Now that you have finally deigned to arrive," Snape continued on, "I have certain instructions for our time together. You will remain silent unless I ask you a direct question, and then you will answer respectfully. Whatever my orders may be, you will follow them without protest. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," Potter said, in the husky tone of voice that Severus had come to learn meant that the boy's vampiric side was aching to kill something. In this case, Snape had no doubt that the specified _something_ was the Potions Master himself.

"Respectfully, Potter. I know the difficulties your feeble mind must have with processing such instructions, but when I say that you will address me respectfully, it means that you will call me 'sir.'"

"Not 'master'?" Potter questioned, raising his eyebrows as if challenging Snape to call him on his blatant refusal to obey commands. "I would've thought you of all people would take the opportunity to indulge your kinkier side—I'm already your slave, and honestly I'm expecting a collar and bondage to follow at some point soon."

"Mister Potter," Snape enunciated clearly, sharply, in a smooth voice that nevertheless managed to be cutting, "understand this. I am all of thirty seconds away from ending this deal of ours and spreading the news of your condition worldwide. Remember one thing—you have everything to lose if you continue to antagonize me deliberately. Despite what you may believe, your opinion of me does not keep me awake at night or any such nonsense; I, unlike some others, do not allow my world to revolve around your approval, Potter. However, the next time you mock me during these sessions, I will not hesitate to make you regret it. Can you comprehend that?"

"Yes, _sir_," Potter said grudgingly.

Snape smirked at that. Yes, he would enjoy Potter's subjugation to the fullest. "Today, I will ask nothing drastic of you, Potter. It has occurred to me, over years of being forced to endure your behavior, that you have issues with properly carrying out even the simplest of directions. In the interest of making sure your deficits do not cause severe bodily harm to myself, or to you, you will start with simple tasks and work your way up." Lifting his wand from the surface of his desktop, Severus waved the stick precisely, summoning a stack of cauldrons from storage and depositing them in front of the boy. "You will endeavor to clean these, without the use of magic, in the hours allotted to you. I do not wish a perfunctory wiping to be given to them all, Potter; rather, I expect them to be cleaned of any dirt and polished until I can see my own reflection in them. Understood?"

Snape imagined Potter's possible responses to this question, settling on the two most likely—an indignant, _they're just cauldrons, they're going to get dirty again anyway,_ and a mocking, _who would want to see __**your**__ reflection in a cauldron, sir?—_and waiting for one to be voiced. Potter's dull, "Yes, sir," that followed instead very nearly set the Potions Master to grinning.

"Not so arrogant now, are we, Potter? Not so haughty now that you're being forced to do a decent days work for once in your life. Does it bother you, having to take orders from the _bat of the dungeons_? Does it hurt you to know that the whim of the _greasy git _could decide your entire future?" Snape could not resist the derision, not when the opportunity to mock the Golden Boy of Gryffindor as freely as he liked was so neatly presented. He already knew what the best part of the entire situation was likely to be—watching Potter bite holes in his lips or rip his palms to shreds whilst attempting to remain silent. He knew the boy's weaknesses from years spent keeping the brat alive, knew what would bother the Gryffindor the most, and was absolutely positive that being completely unable to defend himself from Snape's mockery would eventually tear the boy apart.

The look in Potter's eyes told Snape that the boy was indeed contemplating the messiest, most painful forms of murder he could call to mind. Nevertheless, the Gryffindor remained silent, rolling up his sleeves and lifting the first of the cauldrons from the pile.

Severus, with something resembling a twisted grin, sat back in his chair and returned to marking essays, glancing upwards from time to time to keep an eye on the enslaved Gryffindor. To watch the boy, who was so nearly James Potter's duplicate, being forced into dirty, manual labor... well, though an eye for an eye might end up with the whole world blinded, Snape was content for the time being to use his two fully functional eyes to commit the whole experience to memory.

And though, over the years, many quite poetic things had been said to condemn revenge, there was not a soul in the world who could deny that it was satisfying as hell.

.........................

When, some short while after midnight, Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione was once again lying in wait.

Matters were somewhat complicated by the fact that Ron had chosen to wait with her, and Harry fought back a sigh at seeing his red-headed friend. Hermione, at least, he could count on to know that his night had been a nightmare, and to know when to back off. Had his female best friend been the only one there, he might have been released after a few questioning words, allowed to go and sleep off hours of cauldron polishing with very little in the way of inquisition.

Ron, however, had a stubborn streak a mile wide, as Harry well knew, and he looked curious besides, which did not bode well for the Boy-Who-Lived. When the Weasley got involved with questioning, it could stretch on almost indefinitely, until Ron's interest in the matter had been satiated in full.

Still, for his friends' sakes, Harry hid his weary expression behind a practiced smile, and abandoned any attempt at reaching the staircase to the dorms, rather choosing to cross the Common Room and sink into his usual chair beside the fire. "Hello," he said brightly, ignoring the pain from his now-unbroken hand—scrubbing cauldrons not a day after shattering bones was not the smartest of recovery plans, as Harry had discovered—as it fluttered to rest on the cushion of the armchair.

"For Merlin's sake, Harry," Ron said, rolling his eyes, "stop pretending to be perfectly innocent. It doesn't suit you."

"Innocent of what?" Harry asked blithely, ignoring his friend's words altogether.

"Whatever you were doing all night." It was Hermione who spoke that time, though the girl seemed more resigned to his behavior than Ron. "We've been your friends for years, Harry, which means that we know you well enough to know that you don't just go missing for no reason. Either you went somewhere to think, which means there's something on your mind, or you went somewhere to plan. If the first option is true, we're going to need to listen to you ranting about something in the imminent future; if the second is true, we'll need to cover for you when something explodes in the Great Hall in three days or some such thing. Whatever the case may be, we deserve to be prepared."

"I told you earlier," Harry said, "I went to the dungeons to meet with Pansy Parkinson."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at this, and she and Ron exchanged glances. "You're stalling, mate," Ron supplied finally. "Or you think we're complete idiots."

"No, really!" Harry protested. Then, with a faux-pensive expression, he went on, "We've decided not to elope, though. I guess true love can't make up for everything—she thinks I'm too happy all the time, and I think she looks like some sort of dying rodent that got its face stuck in a pair of windshield wipers, so maybe it wasn't meant to be."

"Harry."

The single word, coupled with the disappointed tone that Hermione spoke it in, was enough to break Harry's falsified levity. If his friends wanted the truth, he decided, it might not hurt to give just a little bit of it. Relaxing his mask, he allowed his friends just a glimpse of the tiredness that had settled in him. "If I tell you where I was tonight," he said, voice solemn, "you have to promise not to ask me why I was there." As Ron started to protest, Harry held up a hand to silence him. "No. I'm exhausted, and I don't want to deal with this right now. Maybe later, but not now. Okay?"

Hermione, unsurprisingly, was the first to agree, nodding her head and bringing her arm to rest comfortingly on Harry's shoulder. Ron's agreement, though slightly longer in coming, was given through a similar gesture.

Harry stood, sweeping Hermione's hand away from himself, and grinned briefly. This, he realized, was going to drive his friends insane. Holding back a laugh at the reactions he was likely to get, Harry said, "I spent the night with Snape in the dungeons."

"Harry, are you being _serious_?" Ron asked, eyes wide.

"Perfectly," Harry answered, and then chuckled as the Weasley's jaw dropped wide open. Hermione's reaction, though less exaggerated, was no less priceless—she'd begun to blink furiously, eyebrows raised.

"But—but—it's Snape! Snape's just, just—Snape!"

Hermione seemed to regain her composure at this, as she rolled her eyes and elbowed Ron in the stomach. "Very eloquent, Ronald. I'm in awe of your articulation."

"'Mione—Snape! And Harry was—dungeons—Snape?"

Harry glanced at Ron. "I think I broke him," he said, voice regaining its previous joking tone. Then he yawned enormously, and gave Hermione a sheepish glance. "I wasn't kidding about being exhausted."

"You'd best get to bed then, Harry," she said. Then, as he was walking up the stairs: "Don't think you've avoided explaining this!"

Harry raised his healthy hand and waved at her vaguely.

He'd had a hard night, and was likely to have a much harder one during his next session with Snape in two days time, but there was very little his friends' behavior could not cure him of, and this was not one of those things.

Especially when Ron's bewildered cry of, "Come on, Harry, you're killing me here!" was following him up the stairs.

.........................

_Harry awoke with the knowledge that his wrists were shackled. This was by far the most disconcerting sensation he'd ever woken to, especially considering the fact his enemies had always been considerate enough to use rope in the past. The cold metallic rings circling his flesh burned in their frigidity, and though he could not see the skin beneath them, he knew it would be chafed and red._

_Feigning sleep, Harry relaxed his body into the restraints somewhat, hoping that whatever enemy had succeeded in capturing him in his sleep would be fooled by the ploy. He needed time, needed to know where he was, needed a plan, an escape route, something. It might be nice to know who was behind the kidnapping—not more than a year before, he would have assumed Voldemort was behind it, and nine times out of ten he would have been right. Now that the war was over, however, he was baffled at to who would want him chained._

_From somewhere not far away, a dull echo of feet shifting over stone reached his ears. The sound grew gradually louder, gradually closer, until he felt that the person who caused the shuffling noise could be no more than five or six feet away. Then a familiar voice spoke, just above a whisper, saying, "I know you aren't asleep, little one."_

_Harry's eyes shot open at that, all thoughts of faking sleep cast from his mind by the voice. The room—no, the cell—he was in was dark, but he could just make out the profile of the man speaking. Bars separated the two, though Harry was unsure if he was the one being locked in, or if the man was the one being locked out. The faint moonlight which illuminated the scene did little to help his search. "What—," he began, then froze, horrified by the dry rasp of his voice. It sounded as though he'd had nothing to drink for months. Swallowing a bit of saliva, he tried again, "What are you doing here?"_

_"Harry," the man said dispassionately, turning to meet Harry's eyes in the dark, "I think I should be asking you that."_

_Harry's breath caught in his throat. "I don't know what you're asking, D—"_

_"Don't!" the man said in a fervent whisper. "Don't say my name here. I can't get further involved in all this."_

_"All this? I don't know what you're talking about—please, I don't know what I'm doing here, and you need to help me."_

_"You're wrong. I don't need to help you. I'm not even sure I want to help you any more, little one." The man's eyes were soft, even in the dark, but his tone was harsh, and Harry could see it was hurting the man to deny him. "You promised me you wouldn't do anything stupid, Harry. I'm pretty sure anything resulting in this," and here the man indicated the cell with a sweep of his hands, "was a stupid mistake to make."_

_Harry froze. A mistake that had landed him in manacles, bars and a cell. What wasn't he remembering? Then it clicked, and he said at a horrified whisper, "Azkaban. I'm in Azkaban prison." With searching eyes, he twisted his body to catch his mentor's eyes more soundly. "What did I do?" he asked in a voice that was equal parts weariness and terror._

_"You were revealed." For a moment, Harry ceased breathing altogether. "You were caught out by a human, Harry. Caught red-handed, incriminated fully. But instead of doing what needed to be done, you let the man live. You resigned yourself to suffering in silence." The man looked at Harry with tired, sorrowful eyes. "He told the world what you were, Harry, and your precious Wizarding World decided that merely being what you are is enough to earn you a life sentence in Azkaban. Do you even understand the repercussions of this, little one? Do you know what fate you've brought to the rest of us? We were safe, and now we are hunted. Our city is overrun."_

_"What of your companion?"_

_"She lives," the man supplied, and Harry's heart lifted somewhat. "She lives where others have died. Only the greatest remain. We are lost, and you are the one who brought them to our doorstep."_

_"Can't you free me?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer. "I can help, you know I can—we can take the ones that remain and get out of here."_

_"It's too late for that, little one." The man lifted a hand and carded his fingers through his hair. "I only came to let you know what you've caused. I can't stay long. I can't leave her alone safely for much longer." _

_"Help me!" he pleaded, caring little that he sounded like a child. "Please, please, help me."_

_"I would have." There was a sort of vehemence in the words. "You know I would have. You could have asked for my help at any time and it would have been yours, little one. But you did not ask. You were too afraid to bring about the death of a mortal man. And now it is too late, and __**I can not help you**__."_

_Harry sagged in his shackles, all the strength gone from his body. This was to be his end—here, starving to death in a world of darkness and Dementors. No blaze of glory for the Boy-Who-Lived, just years of wasting away in a cold cell, watching his own sanity slip through his fingers like grains of sand. "If you will not free me," he said in a small voice, "at least kill me. Please."_

_The man gave no sign of hearing this last, desperate plea, merely watching Harry from just beyond the bars for a moment longer. Finally, the man turned his eyes away and said softly, "Good-__bye, Harry."_

_Harry did not hear the man's footsteps fade away as they had come, but he would be hard pressed to hear anything outside of his head at that moment. All his world had narrowed down to one coldly voiced question spoken in his Progenitor's voice. "Why didn't you just ask me for help, little one?"_

In the Gryffindor Tower in Hogwarts, miles away from the island prison of Azkaban, Harry Potter woke up screaming.

.........................

By his Defense Against the Dark Arts class of the following day, Harry was exhausted.

It had been a week since the first time Harry had been forced to play at being Snape's slave and, despite the threats of the Potions Master, his workload had never evolved beyond cauldron scrubbing. This likely should have pleased Harry, as it was far less excruciating than several punishments Harry had imagined undergoing during the sessions—largely, however, it just left him worried. Snape was by no means an uncreative man, especially when it came to making Harry's life hell; if Harry had been able to come up with more demanding punishments, Snape had to have had at least a few completely sadistic ideas. The fact that the Potions professor had done nothing to implement these ideas worried Harry, because he had never before associated Snape with anything like mercy. It was far more likely that Snape was waiting for him to gain a sense of false security, and the second he relaxed the bat would launch something horrific his way. If this were not the case, and Snape truly did mean for him to do nothing more than scrub cauldrons, did that mean the man was losing interest in their bargain? Caught between a rock and a hard place—on one side the fear of whatever the Potions Master might concoct, and on the other side the fear of being revealed—Harry's sleep and schoolwork had suffered accordingly.

Usually, in situations such as these, Harry could always count on his friends to offer advice and cheer him up, but now even that had been denied to him. The moments of relaxation he had always shared with his friends before had become more stressed with each of his midnight-hour reappearances. Ron, especially, had been tense ever since his announcement of where he spent those nights, going so far as to start nearly every conversation with a guess as to why he was spending time with Snape of all people. Though Hermione had been less vocal in her curiosity, Harry could still see the burning need to have her questions answered lingering in the girl's eyes, and that, in its way, was even worse than Ron's open interrogations. Finally, Harry had reached a point where he sought out solitude wherever possible, willing to avoid his friends if it meant avoiding the issue altogether, but he knew that this was no more than a temporary solution, and not even a good one at that.

As if things had not been difficult enough, there had been that bizarre nightmare the previous night. Harry knew, logically, that what he had dreamed was no more than his brain spinning out images to show his current deepest fear. Still, even in a dream, watching his Progenitor denounce him had hurt. He had no doubt that if Lupin had found another Boggart for them to practice on, at that moment in time his version of the Boggart would be a tall, sad looking man watching him with stony eyes.

Fortunately for Harry, Lupin had not located a Boggart for that day's lesson. In fact, after walking into class late with a soft smile—and Harry had been immensely grateful for the man's timing, as the werewolf had cut off Ron's latest round of questions—Remus had instead addressed the class to inform them of a project they would be completing in pairs. Apparently, any continuing on to gain a Mastery in DADA would be expected to write a thesis about some sort of spell or defense procedure; in the interest of jump starting those who would follow such a path, Lupin had assigned that they research in depth some area of Defense Against the Dark Arts which interested them. They would carry out this research in randomly selected groupings, and would present their findings half-way through the year, effectively teaching the class about their subject for a day.

Harry's mind had raced at this, because, as always, Defense Against the Dark Arts was his favorite subject—he had spent the previous year cramming as much information about various counter-curses and protective spells into his brain as was possible. Though the education had been adequate for the purpose of defeating Voldemort, he knew that in truth his lessons had barely scratched the surface of the topic. Given his affinity for the subject, Harry knew that there were almost endless possibilities to what he could research for this project.

This excitement had turned to nervous anticipation as Lupin had begun the selection of the partners, pairing people together despite previous rivalries—inbred House prejudices or personal vendettas meant nothing in the werewolf's decision. As the returning eighth year class was so small, the majority of the students attended all the same classes as each other, meaning that Harry's peers in DADA were from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin as well as his own Gryffindor house. This meant that a fair bit of unhappy muttering was done as Slytherins were forced to intermix with the other three houses. Harry was hoping one of his friend's names would be called with his—they might have been driving him insane, but they were friends nevertheless, and he knew that at least Hermione would be inclined to work hard.

"Blaise Zabini," Lupin was just calling out, "you're with Neville Longbottom." Harry winced on his friend's behalf, and could see Ron echoing the movement from the corner of his eye. The Weasley had been paired happily enough, and would be working with Seamus Finnegan on this project—Harry somehow doubted the two would get much work done, but there would probably be stories of pranks and escapades to be had after the assignment was over. Hermione, however, remained unpaired yet.

"Pansy Parkinson, Parvati Patil. Padma Patil with Lavender Brown. Terry Boot with Daphne Greengrass. Hermione, you're with Dean."

Harry met Hermione's eyes at this, and the witch mouthed an apology at her friend. Waving it off with one hand, Harry indicated that he was fine with this decision—after all, the Gryffindors were all paired off, but there were a few decent Ravenclaws left, so there was hope still.

And then that hope was rapidly quashed as Lupin said, "Harry, you're paired with Draco Malfoy."

Harry groaned under his breath at this, resolutely avoiding the thought of working with Malfoy. No doubt the prat was going to be impossible to work with, and if the two actually agreed on a topic to research without argument, Harry would fear the end of the world was coming. "Like my week wasn't bad enough already," Harry said under his breath, only to be surprised as Lupin cast him a quizzical glance.

Stifling a gasp, Harry realized that he'd been correct in his assumptions—as Lupin got closer to his transformation at the full moon, the werewolf's senses increased exponentially in sensitivity. Words that might have been previously inaudible became distinct to the man, and things he had previously not noticed no longer went unseen. What Harry feared most, however, was the werewolf's sense of smell. On the single occasion that Harry had dared to come to class without drinking his fill of Blood Replenishing Potion, his senses had, for the barest moment, slipped into the fever-pitch of intensity that his predatory nature afforded him—in that second, his olfactory receptors had been positively assaulted by an alien smell, something so very much _other_ that a shiver had run down Harry's spine. The odor had not been unpleasant, but rather impossible to avoid and largely overwhelming; Harry, after getting his body back under control, had realized that he was picking up on the scent markers of a werewolf. Knowing what Lupin was, this had come as no surprise—still, if the man smelt so strongly of his inner beast, and he only changed into it once a month, how would Harry, who indulged his vampiric nature about once every week or two, smell? Was there any way that as the full moon drew nearer, Harry could remain unrevealed?

Some of this worry must have shown on his face, because Harry found himself on the receiving end of a concerned frown—then, seeming to shake the moment off, Lupin finished with, "You should get together with your partner now and start considering options. I'll be expecting a joint decision by the end of the week."

Casting a sideways glance across the classroom, Harry scanned the Slytherins until his gaze came to rest upon Malfoy's still form. Jerking his head to the side, Harry made it blatantly obvious that he expected the Malfoy heir to come to him. Malfoy, rather than moving, cast him an irritated glance and pointed a finger at the empty seat next to him—Harry merely responded by leaning back in his chair and assuming an exaggerated pose of relaxation, hands folded behind his head.

When the blond came to him, a brief feeling of victory washed through Harry's body. Petty it might be, but it was the only vindication he'd gotten all week.

"Potter," the Malfoy heir drawled coldly, clearly irritated that he'd had to do such a mundane thing as _move_ for Harry's sake, "I see I've been paired up with the most skilled Defense Against the Dark Arts student of our generation." This mocking flattery had been only part of a gushing article by Skeeter in the Prophet, extolling once again the many exceptional values of the Boy-Who-Lived; Harry felt himself grow cold at the reference. Even after defeating Voldemort—especially after defeating Voldemort—Harry had been afforded no chance at normal life; every small action he made still warranted a front page article, regardless of how trivial the action might have been. A speculative discussion on his favorite sort of underwear had recently beat out an editorial concerning the trials of former Death Eaters for a first-page slot. The whole thing was frankly repulsive to Harry, and he had no doubt that Malfoy knew this full well. "As such, there's clearly no way I can fail this project." Then the Malfoy reverted to his usual attitude, sneering out a, "At least try to stay out of my way, Potter."

"Oh, yeah, Malfoy," Harry retorted, locking eyes with the blond, "because you're just the expert on this subject. Last I checked, you were more concerned with the Dark Arts than with any defense against them."

This was something of a hit below the belt—after being acquitted in his trial, Malfoy had been forced to take an Unbreakable Oath which banned him from using Dark Magic of any sort, though his memories had revealed that he had tended to shy away from the destructive power in the first place. Throwing the prejudices back in his face now was akin to adding insult to injury where the Slytherin was concerned. Regardless, the blond boy didn't even flinch. "How typical of you, Potter," the Malfoy heir went on, "_noble_, _clever_ Harry Potter, spitting back the opinions of the media in my face rather than coming up with an insult of your own."

"A little hypocritical there, Malfoy, though I'd not taken you for a fan of Rita Skeeter," Harry shot back, venom creeping into his tone.

"What can I say, I'm a wizard. Apparently these days one of the qualifications for being magical is obsessing over Harry Potter's underwear." It seemed the blond had seen that one as well. Looking thoughtful, Malfoy said, "So, Potter, tell me something—_do_ you prefer boxers?"

Harry opened his mouth to return fire, when all of a sudden a soft hand was resting on his shoulder. When he managed the awkward twist necessary to see the person standing behind him, Harry realized that Remus Lupin, face gentle but blank, was intent on ending the fight. This was really just as well, as Harry wasn't entirely sure what would have come out of his mouth next—likely it would have been sharp, sarcastic, and bordering on lewd, and he really wasn't sure he would've wanted to say it at all. "Boys," the werewolf chided, reminding Harry once again of why he'd always favored the man as a teacher, "I really thought you two would be more mature than this."

"I am," Malfoy insisted haughtily, "when Potter here isn't dragging me down."

"Oh, _grow_ up," Harry gritted out, rolling his eyes.

"Harry, Draco," Lupin said, voice more commanding, but still kind, "I paired you two together for a reason. I'd hoped you would be able to get over this rivalry and work together. You're both eighteen now—you have no reason to keep up such a childish feud. In any case, I will not be reassigning you two. Either you can learn to coexist, or you can fail these project. Keep that in mind."

Seeming reassured that his message had been conveyed adequately, Lupin removed his hand from Harry's shoulder and stepped away, likely to put his mediating efforts to good use in another inter-House pair. After a long moment of silence, Harry finally said, more to himself than anything else, "Was Lupin just channeling Dumbledore or what? I'm surprised he wasn't offering lemon drops while he was at it."

A strange thing happened at this; a sound that vaguely resembled a chuckle left Malfoy's mouth. Twirling about, Harry cast a look of disbelief at the Malfoy heir, only to find the blond looking exceedingly puzzled as well, looking as though he'd never heard himself make such a noise before. For a moment, it seemed almost as if Draco Malfoy had been laughing at one of Harry's weaker attempts at a joke.

Then all was back to normal, and Malfoy snapped, "So, Potter, enlighten me—do you have any brilliant ideas?"

"No," Harry ceded, "but I don't suppose you do either."

"For once you're actually correct." This sounded surprisingly close to a civil statement, and Malfoy seemed to compensate for this with his next words. "If the no-doubt exceptionally busy savior of our world can make room in his schedule for such a lowly being as myself, we might meet in the library one day after dinner and research. Wednesday, for instance."

"I'm busy on Wednesdays," Harry supplied automatically, trying to keep his mind off of the topic of his sessions. "Tuesdays, Thursdays or Saturdays only if we're meeting after dinner."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow in a manner scarily reminiscent of Snape's. "I'm certain you could be moved to rearrange your plans, Potter."

Harry raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "If you want to meet on any other days than the ones I've mentioned, you'll have to take it up with Professor Snape—I don't get a choice about the matter." Then, seeing Malfoy's slightly confused expression, he clarified with, "I'm taking Remedial Potions again." Admittedly, this was not the most original of excuses, but Snape had told him to come up with something. Besides, in Harry's experience, if an excuse was accepted without question once, there was no harm in at least attempting to use it a second time.

"I pity Professor Snape," Malfoy replied simply, "for having to endure your deficiencies twice." Then the blond raised an eyebrow and shrugged slightly. "Very well—we'll meet on Thursdays instead."

"Alright," Harry agreed, before taking a moment to wonder how long it would be before the two fell back on hexes rather than spoken insults. Knowing how volatile he could be in Malfoy's presence, and knowing that the blond entered a similar state around him, Harry was willing to bet that it would not a very long time at all. Glumly, he resigned himself that he would probably be lucky to survive this project, let alone pass it.

Malfoy seemed to be following the same line of thought, as the blond sneered and went on, "You'll have to excuse me, Potter, but if I spend another second in your glowing presence the temptation to spell you senseless will be more than I can control."

"The feeling is mutual," Harry said, with surprising honesty. "Go before we do something idiotic."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you actually cared about my wellbeing, Potter." This lacked some of the Malfoy heir's usual bite—he seemed nearly shocked that Harry had had even the slightest hint of concern for their actions. It seemed that neither one of the pair was especially accustomed to maturity on the part of their rival.

"Good thing you know better, then, isn't it?" Harry replied, voice issuing something similar to a challenge.

"Indeed," the blond said. "Remember, Potter—Thursday after dinner in the library. Don't be late." When Harry nodded by way of agreement, the Malfoy heir departed with one final sneer for good measure, turning sharply on his heel and slinking back to the Slytherin section of the room.

Seeing that Harry's partner had left, Ron and Seamus wasted no time in relocating to the seats on either side of the Boy-Who-Lived, depositing their books heavily on the desks in front of them. "Harry," Ron said, sweeping an eye over his friend's form to gauge any potential level of damage, "are you alright? I mean, I didn't see Malfoy pull his wand on you, but you can never be too careful..."

"No," Harry said, sounding somewhat disquieted by the knowledge he was imparting, "Malfoy didn't do anything other than insult me, really. Considering that we've hated each other for years, the whole thing was almost... I dunno, amiable, maybe."

Ron raised an eyebrow at that, giving Harry a look that clearly said that the Weasley thought his friend was off his rocker. "You and Malfoy being friendly? Not in this lifetime." Then the red head snorted and cast a dirty look towards the blond Slytherin, who mostly definitely noticed and proceeded to return an equally disgusted stare. "I bet Malfoy has something planned. He's just trying to get you to let your guard down."

"Maybe," Harry admitted with a shrug, "but it didn't feel that way." Then: "Ron, stop looking at me like I just offered the prat a puppy and life long friendship, I don't want to have anything more to do with him than I absolutely have to. I'm just saying that maybe we could reach a truce, for the project's sake."

Seamus and Ron both sent disbelieving glances in his direction, and Harry made quick work of changing the topic to Quidditch. As eighth years, they weren't able to take positions on the House teams this year; this, in Ron's opinion, was just short of a deadly insult, and mentioning the topic around the Weasley was like mentioning any sort of schoolwork in Hermione's presence. Assured that Ron's attention was quite solidly elsewhere, and with Seamus to help carry on the conversation, Harry used the rest of the class to just relax, letting his mind wander.

When Defense Against the Dark Arts ended, Harry was no less exhausted then he had been an hour previously, and his list of worries was no shorter; despite that, he left the class in a decent mood. It seemed something might finally be going right after all.

.........................

News passed quickly amongst the students of Hogwarts, which was not particularly shocking. After all, in Muggle schools, students had no methods of communication other than written notes, mouthed words and whispers in hallways, but they did a more than adequate job of exchanging gossip and the like; Hogwarts, whose students could send messages through dozens of different magical means, was a school in which nothing stayed secret for very long. If there was a pop quiz in Transfiguration, the entire year would know about it about five minutes after the first class finished their testing—any interesting hook-ups or break-ups were public knowledge within a maximum of fifteen or twenty minutes. The rumor mill of Hogwarts was a thriving thing, but sometimes it served a far more vital purpose in the student body.

On that particular Monday, this purpose was well attended to—by lunch, every student in Hogwarts knew that disturbing Professor Snape in any way was tantamount to having a death wish, and, furthermore, it was all Neville Longbottom's fault.

Neville, for all that he was a quiet, pleasant enough teenager most of the time, had been a common subject in school gossip for some time, largely because of his unique skill in completely and utterly irritating the irascible Potions Master. It mattered little that Neville's accidents in Potions were entirely commonplace by this point—any of the explosions Neville all too frequently caused were guaranteed to put Snape in a foul mood for the remainder of the day.

It was additionally a source of great confusion amongst the students as to why Neville so often screwed up his potions royally. After all, the Gryffindor was well known for his expertise in botany, and ninety percent of Potions was knowing the correct techniques with which to treat various plants. The rest was all in knowing the difference between slicing, dicing and various other forms of cutting, in knowing the proper stirring techniques, and in being able to improvise when the potion needed it. Perhaps Neville's extreme lingering terror of Professor Snape was the cause—certainly most of the student body hoped so, as they were loathe to believe that a war hero caused them regular suffering merely because he had never learned the proper way to maneuver a spoon.

According to Michael Corner, who was in Neville's Potions class, that day's accident had been caused by the Gryffindor failing to measure out the proper amount of Hellebore syrup required for a Draught of Peace. This mistake had been caught and corrected by a growingly irate Professor Snape, and had caused no great harm. However, flustered by Snape's mocking instructions, Neville had then proceeded to stir the liquid one too many times counterclockwise; the Gryffindor attempted to compensate for this by stirring an additional time in the other direction as well. Apparently, this did not equalize the potion as Neville had intended, but rather prompted it to shoot out of the cauldron, spread thoroughly over everything within a five foot radius, and cause anyone touched by it to giggle incessantly and begin dancing something similar to a shoddy approximation of an Irish Jig.

Neville, and two others unfortunate enough to be caught within the blast radius, had to be stunned and escorted to the Hospital Wing, where Madame Pomfrey provided sleeping draughts which would keep the three sound asleep until the effects wore off. Overall, it was certainly not the most damage Longbottom had ever caused. It did, however, effectively derail Snape's lesson; as the potion had been a fifth-year draught that Snape had only assigned for revision's sake, the idiotic mistake had put Snape in a bad temper.

Each and every class which found their way to Snape's classroom after Neville's unfortunate incident had driven the man to greater heights of aggravation—small mistakes abounded that day, only exasperating the Potions Master further. Eventually sheer terror of what their Potions Professor would do to them if mistakes were made caused several students to err in their nervousness. More than a few cauldrons had been doomed to meet a horrible, messy end throughout the day's lessons.

By the end of the day, Snape was positively fuming. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had lost well over fifty points each, and even Snape's treasured Slytherins had not escaped unscathed. Hermione Granger had been criticized, for Merlin's sake, and the bookworm was practically famous for her absolutely flawless Potions—Draco Malfoy, who could usually do no wrong in Snape's eyes, even received a harsh comment or two of his own.

At dinner, Snape had deducted points from one first year in Hufflepuff for merely glancing at the staff table—though the headmistress rapidly set about returning the points, it did not stop the eleven year old girl from being mortified to the point of tears.

When dinner was over, and students were saved from any contact with Professor Snape for the remainder of the day, a collective sigh of relief was breathed throughout the student body. Though they did their best to walk carefully back to their dorms, cautiously avoiding any paths the Potions Master was known to take in returning to his rooms, they knew the worst of it was over. The man was famous for his ire, yes, but it rarely carried into the next day, and hopefully Neville Longbottom would try harder to keep from messing up in the next day's lessons. At least for the rest of the night, Hogwarts' students were safe from Professor Snape's irritation.

Or, almost all of its students were safe. One of them, a particularly well known one at that, was not free to return to the comforts of the Gryffindor Tower, but would rather have to march directly into the metaphorical lion's den. This particular one was also known for exacerbating the Potions Master further; indeed, he was more reputed in this domain than even Neville Longbottom. Had any of the students known where this one brave soul was headed, they would have feared for the boy's life.

Harry Potter knew he was going to have a bad night.

.........................

Snape was once again sitting behind his desk when the knock came.

As before, the Potions Master knew exactly who was standing on the other side of the door. It was late—none of the students, even his Slytherins, would dare to disturb him at this hour, especially not when he had been forced to tolerate imbecilic accidents in almost every one of his classes throughout the day. Had a teacher required his presence, the knock would have been sharper, an indication that the one banging against the wooden door was supposedly an equal and had nothing to fear from Severus Snape. As this was not the case, and the knock seemed almost hesitant in tone, Snape knew that Harry Potter was standing on the other side of his classroom door, awaiting the latest of their sessions.

"Enter!" he called out sharply, as was his custom; as predicted, the portal swung open to reveal the messy-haired Gryffindor he'd been expecting.

To Snape's great satisfaction, the barest hint of fear had reentered the boy's stance. No longer was a silver-eyed predator lingering behind the emerald eyes—a week or so after his most recent hunt, Potter had reverted to the same weary boy Snape had observed in the Great Hall. It seemed that even with the use of the Blood Replenishing Potion he knew the boy stored in his back pocket, Potter still required animal blood at least twice a month.

"Don't just stand in the doorway, Potter," Snape barked, watching a whole bevy of negative emotions swirl across the boy's eyes as he spoke. For a moment, he truly thought the Gryffindor meant to resist, to continue waiting on the classroom's doorframe or even to turn and run; then, finally, Potter stepped inside, door swinging shut behind him.

The gaze Potter sent his way was a mixture of reluctant complacence, wariness and anger, the boy's rebellious spirit surfacing even when it was directly opposing the Gryffindor's best interests. Nevertheless, Potter remained silent, waiting for instruction, and Snape took a moment to enjoy the uncharacteristic submissiveness the boy was forced to show.

"You are no doubt wondering what task I have for you tonight." The Gryffindor answered this with the barest of nods, apprehension clear in his eyes, and Snape was loathe to waste his time on more basic chores. "I had very much hoped to begin introducing you to more difficult assignments tonight, Potter, but as the situation stands it seems the idiocy of your peers has spared you for one more night. The Hospital Wing's potions collection was greatly diminished today, as your schoolmates persisted in inflating various appendages and setting themselves aflame during my classes. As it seems that teenagers are too weak to handle even the slightest of discomfort without lingering trauma, Madame Pomfrey distributed enough Calming Draught to effectively numb the emotions of a small country. As this is the case, it falls to me to replenish these stores. You will be preparing large quantities of the ingredients I require. Is that beyond your admittedly inadequate abilities, Mister Potter?"

"No, sir," Potter said through gritted teeth, and Snape smirked.

When the boy did not move from his position just inside the door, Snape tacked on sarcastically, "As you have been in my classes for seven years now, Potter, I would expect that you would know where to locate the necessary ingredients for such a potion. Then again, as it is you we are discussing, I am not surprised that you require assistance. You will find the recipe and instructions in page two hundred and thirty-three of that textbook," here Snape indicated a book resting atop a desk not five feet to Potter's right, "and the ingredients in the store room. I presume that you do not need further prompting?"

"No, sir," the boy said again, before beginning his task.

Snape did not provide the Gryffindor with a knife, but, as it turned out, the boy did not require an additional one—a quick practiced movement had the blade Snape had seen before leaving its holster on the boy's arm and being transferred to his palm. Once the proper ingredients had been fetched, Potter set about preparing them as per the instructions, leaving the room silent with nothing but the soft sounds of plants being cut to fill the air.

Not one to let the quality of the instruments used affect his potions, Severus took a moment to inspect Potter's knife. The metal of the blade was pure and unstained, meaning that the boy had either spelled it to resist the tarnish left by blood, or spent time carefully cleaning it after each use. Though he doubted the latter—Potter was hardly the type to devote his time to menial things when a spell could do the work for him—the knife itself was certainly deserving of good treatment. The style of it was basic, a standard blade, handle and bolster that looked vaguely dagger-like in design, but even at a distance Snape could see that the cutting edge was perfectly sharp, likely from constant attention and sharpening. The bolster angled in such a way as to increase the duality of the blade, allowing for use either as a hunting tool or an everyday knife. Though he was not entirely sure, Snape thought that some sort of design might have been etched into the handle; what little of it was visible around Potter's hand looked to be the head of a hissing snake. Overall, the quality of the knife was exceptional, and Snape felt a pang at this, because of course the Golden Boy would have a perfect knife to match his perfect life.

"Tell me, Potter," Snape said, suddenly aware of what he'd wanted to say for some time, "if you found yourself revealed to the world, how do you think your precious public would react?"

Potter stilled slightly at this, knife pausing in the middle of a downward movement, and the boy's entire frame tensed. After realizing that the question was more rhetorical than anything else, the Gryffindor returned to his preparations, though none of his stiffness had eased.

"Oh, yes, you are their savior," Snape went on, "but then, you are no longer human. Do you think they would accept you still? Would your fans send blood donations with their adoring mail? Or, perhaps, would they see you as the monster that you are and reject you?"

_Thunk, thunk, thunk_. The knife fell rhythmically against the table's surface, Potter's hands keeping up the even movements even as fear began to dance across his eyes.

"But even more than that, I wonder what your parents would think." This was edging into dangerous territory where Potter was concerned, that much Snape knew, but the Potions Master meant for his words to hurt. "Would your mother think well of you, now that you thirst for blood? Would your father clap you on the back and smile as you went off to hunt, I wonder?"

"My parents are dead," Potter said, voice deceptively even. Snape could tell, however, that the boy was struggling to control himself; the Gryffindor averted his eyes as if to hide the emotions that always showed so plainly in them, and he set about chopping at a faster rate. "Their opinions really don't matter much now."

Intent on causing harm, Snape went on, "Your friends, however, live still. What would they think of you? You are a vampire, an abomination, a Dark thing. Would they take that news well? Would Weasley still sleep in the same room as you, even, knowing that you could drain his blood as he tossed and turned in the night? Would Granger accept you if she knew that some part of you sees her as no more than a meal?"

The boy's shoulders began to shake, as though he was fighting off tears, but he said nothing.

"No," the Potions Master continued, "you can never tell them. But what if, one day, your tenuous control slips away from your grasp, Potter? I see how the effect this lifestyle has on you—I see the hunger in your eyes. You are living on Blood Replenishing Potion and animal blood only, but it is not enough, not nearly enough, and we both know that. Would you be able to stop yourself, if you stumbled upon one of your little friends while you were hungry? Would your inner monster restrain itself for their sake? Or would you drain Weasley or Granger to sate your thirst? You are the savior of every person in this school, Potter, but now it is you that they need to be saved from. What keeps you from drinking from them all, from consuming their blood until not a drop is left anywhere in this school?"

The shaking increased in intensity, but Potter continued to cut his plants.

"And yet, despite all that, you pretend to be human. You walk in the sunlight with the rest of us, smiling and laughing—how long would you need to be exposed before you burn to ashes, Potter? Every time you play Quidditch, you mount a broom that could be used as a weapon against you, that could be used to end your life. Every moment that you spend in this school, you are endangering all those who surround you. How long will it be before your inner monster overwhelms you, and we all find ourselves dead in our beds, drained completely of blood?"

Finally, Potter reacted, shaking giving way to what sounded like a small hysterical giggle. Snape had heard such sounds before, and knew that they were almost always a precursor to some more extreme reaction. It was more than likely that the boy was about to burst into tears or, better yet, attack his professor—Snape would then have a legitimate reason to use in causing doubts about the boy's self control. Any moment, Potter was sure to do something.

What Severus Snape had not counted on was that that _something_ did not involve tears or any sort of physical attack—instead Potter's head lifted at last, and the boy proceeded to meet his eyes and break into whooping laughter. Snape failed to see the humor in the situation, especially seeing as his words had been meant to break the boy's spirit, but clearly something had amused Potter, as deep throaty laughter continued to burst from the boy until he was clutching his sides and struggling to breathe.

The boy's words, when he finally quieted enough to speak, surprised Snape as well. "If this is how Hermione feels all the time," Potter said nonsensically, "I owe her an apology."

"If you might enlighten me as to the cause of your amusement, Mister Potter, I would appreciate it greatly," Snape said, falling back on the overly formal tones he used when thoroughly befuddled.

"It's just that, for once, I know every detail of a situation while you remain totally ignorant, Professor," Potter supplied, snickering slightly as he did so. Evidently Snape's gaze betrayed the fact that he was still completely confused, as the boy went on, "Well, sir, you think I'm Made."

"Made? Have you taken leave of your pathetic excuse for wits, Potter?"

"Yes, sir, Made," Potter clarified, ignoring the insult altogether and still seeming completely amused by the whole situation. "Haven't you wondered how I can do everything you mentioned? Go to school without worrying about draining everyone dry? Walk in sunlight? Ride a giant piece of wood without any cause for worry? I'm not a Made vampire, sir. I'm Born. But, of course, you have no idea what that means."

"Are you suggesting that there is more than one variety of vampire, Potter?" Snape queried, raising one eyebrow to complete the gesture.

"No, sir. I'm not suggesting anything. There are two types of vampires—one of them that the Wizarding World knows about, and one that has remained successfully hidden for years. I am one of the latter group, which means that everything you think you know about me is dead wrong." Potter seemed almost gleeful to be telling him this.

Snape sneered. "Tell me about these so-called Born vampires then, Mister Potter."

"I can't." Here all the good humor left Potter's voice—in fact, the slightest bit of fear seemed to reenter his voice. "I can't afford to reveal us." Then, seeming to shake off the echo of whatever had haunted him, Potter went on, "It's one of the first rules of my people, sir. Never tell any wizards, witches or Muggles about what we are."

For some reason, it bothered Snape to no end that Potter of all people knew something that he himself did not. He had specifically spent years of his adult life educating himself in anything that he had the time to learn; one thing that had never sat well with Severus Snape was ignorance. The fact that it was Harry Potter, James Potter's son, who held information to which Snape was not privy only increased the blow tenfold. Snape had no doubt that Potter knew all this—the fact that the boy had said anything at all suggested that he was willing to trade for the information. "Very well, Mister Potter," Snape said, observing the Gryffindor closely, "if you are so very keen on making another deal, I would not be unamenable to a bargain."

Looking distinctly Slytherin in nature, Potter pushed the now fully prepared vegetation to one side and sheathed his knife, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "I have only three conditions. One, that you swear not to reveal me or any of the information I share."

Snape pursed his lips. "You know I will not agree to such a thing."

"Yeah, I did kind of anticipate that," Potter admitted with a shrug. "Didn't hurt to try. Anyway, my second condition is this—you ease up on me during these sessions, and either shorten each of our meetings by at least an hour or give up one of the days I've previously needed to attend sessions in."

Snape contemplated this for a moment, then nodded. "I assume that you would prefer to have your Sunday night returned to you."

"If you don't mind, sir," Potter said, apparently more willing to use the respectful term now that some of the chips were back on his side.

"Very well, Potter," Snape ceded, though he sneered as he did so. "You are free from this Sunday hence. Finish naming your terms before I cease to feel so generous."

"You only get to ask one question per session, though if a second question is required for clarification, I will answer that as well. I will not share my information all at once," Potter said, with a tone of finality.

This was an intelligent move on the boy's part—keep Snape interested so he had no reason to denounce the boy in public or make his punishments harsher once more—and Severus was vaguely surprised that the Gryffindor had enough forethought to think of such things. Still, if Snape had a choice between fragmented information and none whatsoever, his choice was clear. "I accept this term as well, Potter."

Already Snape's mind was racing with questions, as he'd recently hardly been faced with new topics on which he might educate himself; this promise of a never before studied race of creatures was like Christmas come early for the inquisitive Potions Master. Forcing his mental process into a somewhat calmer state, he began to weed out useless queries and formulate a proper inquiry with which to start.

"Just to get this vocalized," Potter said, interrupting Snape's line of thought, "we do have a deal, right?"

While the question might have seemed idiotic to an outside observer, Snape knew the innocuous seeming question was to serve an important purpose. He was well trained in sensing the patterns of magic in the air, and knew what impact small changes could have on everyday occurrences—as Potter spoke, he could feel the balance of power within the room shifting. Somehow, without any spell, verbalization or wand movements, Potter's will alone was enough to enter them both into a magically binding oath. Snape's next answer, whatever it might be, would be final; if he agreed now, he could not go back on the agreement later without risking his magic.

After a moment of deliberation, Snape's voice shattered the silence. "Yes, Potter. We have a deal."

Something in the air snapped, almost as if a key was being turned in some invisible lock, and, in time with Potter's slightly relieved exhale, the magic in the room returned to its normal state. The oath was sealed.

Leaning forward on his desk, Snape offered a dark grin. "Very well, Mister Potter. Tell me about the Born."

**And here ends the monstrously long chapter that this became.**

**If you got this far, leave me a review. There's a reason I cut this chapter off here—I want to hear your questions. What do you want to know about Harry's race of vampires? I already know some of the basics that I'm covering in the next chapter, but otherwise I will incorporate any reviewer's question that I think helps to advance the plot.**

**Another question, because, yes, Malfoy is here to stay: do you lovely readers prefer to read Draco X Hermione or Ron X Hermione? I am capable of going either way at this point, though I find it easier to write Draco than Ron—still, if you guys want a Ron X Hermione, you'll get it. :)**

**One thing to note: I have finals in two weeks, which means that, unfortunately, my writing will have to go on the back burner until they're over. However, my summer is nothing but free time, and I go to a camp for the arts—I specifically take writing classes—so I should have plenty of time to write then. This means that my next chapter will be delayed, but the ones after it should come a little faster.**

**And last, my dedication question for next chapter: what do you think, of all the male names in the world that begin with 'D', Harry's progenitor's name is? I know this is kind of impossible to get, but here's a hint to narrow it down: it was originally of either Scottish or Gaelic origin, and it means "dark warrior." This time I'm leaving it open to Google-ing, so if you can find it on the internet, send it in your review and you'll get the next chapter dedicated to you. :D**

**And now for review replies:**

**Snuggalette~ Thanks for the encouragement! This was my first review for this story, so believe me when I say that it meant a lot. **

**dracosbaby08~ Lol, I can see why you might've thought that. I totally didn't even think about drugs, but your idea amused me anyway. :D Good guess on the story's title as well, and I hope you keep reading and loving this fic.**

**BetaForRent~ Yeah, the flower is technically called 'Bleeding Hearts' rather than 'Weeping Hearts', but seeing as you were going from German to English, it counts in my book. They're ridiculously pretty, and I grow them in my garden as well. **

**passionfornight~ Thanks for the encouragement—I was trying to do my own take on a somewhat clichéd story line, so I'm glad it came out well.**

**sienna~ Thanks for pointing out the typo there (cue sheepish grin). What I really meant to say was: Had she known then the scale of _what_ she was attempting, even Hermione might have been discouraged. Hopefully that clears things up a little.**

**hadaniko~ I'm really glad that you're loving this story already. :) These sorts of reviews do a lot for my confidence as a writer. Though you weren't correct on the title's meaning, I was kind of impressed with the guess work. I hope you liked this chapter as well. :D**

**Would've0Could've0Should've~ Well, technically, the stuff in the container wasn't blood, so don't feel bad for not guessing ahead of time. I like writing about werewolves too, don't get me wrong, but as Lupin already covers the werewolf aspect of this story, I thought Harry should get a chance at being my personal favorite creature. :D I'm sorry about your pet rock, and it sucks about the clouds, 'cause I like making shapes out of them. The one outside my window look like an ice cream cone right now, which is making me ridiculously hungry. :P**

**Amariposa~ Yeah, making my chapters too short has never been an issue of mine—if you couldn't tell from this one, my problem tends to be making them too long. Thanks for letting the errors slide (I'm the only one editing this, and I'm good, but I'm not infallible). :D And, also, thanks for seeing that they're in character, as that was pretty damned difficult to get down. :) I'm really grateful for all your praise, and I hope you keep reading and enjoying!**

**Yuna's Aeon~ You're right—everybody loves vampires. :) The wizarding drugs idea made me laugh, and considering the fact that I was reading this review on my friend's phone in the middle of English class, I got a couple of really weird looks. :D Hopefully you liked this chapter as well.**

**Desdemona~ The unicorn's blood could make a good plot device in some other fanfic, but that isn't where I went with this. :D Thanks for reviewing!**

**dragon~ If you guessed that early, I'm impressed. And considering that you aren't a native English speaker, I'm also impressed by the lack of mistakes in your writing. Please keep reading and enjoying. :)**

**Sarah~ Thanks for being so nice! I'm really glad that you appreciate the story so far. Lol, Dicentra Formosa does sound like it could be some sort of magical ritual or something. And if you didn't guess, it just means that I got to have the fun of surprising you. (Grins)**

**phoenixgirl83~ Yes, you are going to hear more about the friends, and eventually you'll meet them as well. For now, a couple of them are being introduced in the next chapter, so just keep reading and you'll have your questions answered. :D**

**Snape Heiress~ Good, I like surprising people. :) Hope you enjoyed!**

**Faye317~ Seriously, it's reviews like yours that allow me to keep writing. You made me blush. :P That was actually a really good guess on the vampire thing, I'm impressed you figured it out that early. I hope you enjoyed the second chapter as well. :D**

**taurwen~ Wow, that was a spectacular guess considering that you made it that early. Good job on knowing the title as well—I grow them in my garden too, they're just too pretty to leave out.**

**Ravenclaw Samurai~ Harry the drunk—thank you for that image, it really made me laugh. And it doesn't really matter overall if you Googled it, especially not if it was the title that prompted you to read. :D Google's open for next chapter's dedication, though, so feel free. And as for how they dealt with the situation, I hope you liked. :D**

**Foret Interdite~ Thanks for entering this story into your community! I speak really basic French, after studying it in school for three years. :D Yes, the plant is my profile picture, but honestly I'd forgotten about that—I put it there because it was pretty, before I started even planning this story. I'm sincerely impressed that you even knew it down to the family name. And no, he isn't a werewolf, but I can see how you might think that—your first guess was right.**

**SageKage~ Good guesswork! I hope you enjoyed the chapter.**

**Smiles~ Thanks for the praise, and good job with guessing correctly. :D **

**amnethyst-emerald~ I'm glad you like the story so far. :) And I'm kind of glad you didn't guess, I always feel better when I manage to take readers by surprise.**

**Moon Phoenix~ Thank you for reviewing, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.**

**Rion Kerr~ I'm glad you like it so far, and good job with guessing right. I have them growing in my backyard, and, actually, they are what helped start this story in my mind. I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well! :D**

**PellinorFanatic~ Thanks, and I'm glad you like it. Werewolves and vampires are equally awesome in my mind, and, though vampires don't have Lupin, they've got Harry now, so it all balances out. :D**

**ams71080~ Thank you for reviewing, and I hope you continue to enjoy!**

**Slash Superqueen~ This was one of the reviews I ended up reading on my friend's phone in English, and you made me laugh so hard that I seriously freaked out everyone sitting near me. :P I'm glad your clouds are pretty, and I'm sorry about the tragic death of your pet rock. **

**loretta537~ Thanks for the review—and if the story goes as I planned it, you'll know by the end of next chapter, so there's something to look forward to. :D**

**mrscakeakajane~ Thanks for reviewing! I hope you liked this chapter as well.**

**Aud~ I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations! :D**


	3. Not just a river in Egypt

**Song's corner of excuses: Okay, so, I know the wait I put you guys through for this chapter was inexcusable, but I did have reasons. First, finals—then I got the flu and was sick for a week. As if that wasn't enough, I stopped having access to my computer for a while, and then had communications issues with my beta. Assuming no more minor catastrophes occur, this sort of wait will never happen again, and I'm so sorry.**

**Dedication one-shots: I realized I never covered this, so here goes. If a reader answers five (or any multiple thereof) of my dedication questions correctly, they get to suggest a one-shot plot which I will write in the future. (Ex. Reader wants a Snarry fic involving mangoes after answering five questions correctly, they'll be getting a Snarry fic involving mangoes. _Grins_.)**

**This chapter goes out to the following—Rion Kerr (two in a row already) and Sage Kage. All my readers are amazing, and I love you all, but for this chapter, these two get props. **

**Hope you enjoy!**

Honestly, Snape had been more than half expecting a fairy tale.

Obviously, Potter _was_ a vampire—the boy would never have agreed to Severus' particular brand of revenge if he hadn't truly had something to hide. And, as far as Snape knew, the level of control Potter displayed was, especially for a newly created vampire, practically unheard of. But he had previously attributed that to Potter's hero complex, or, more appropriately, tendency to martyr himself; the boy was more than willing to sacrifice nearly anything if it meant protecting those around him, and, upon becoming a vampire, would likely have combated his nature until the inevitably bloody loss of control down the road.

And when Potter had sat so casually in front of him, claiming to belong to a thus-far unheard of class of vampires, Snape had, naturally, been somewhat skeptical. The chances of the Gryffindor's story being true were minimal at best; Severus had agreed to the boy's conditions only on the off-chance that there was any verity to be had in Potter's story. Had the tale proved false, or impossible, the conditions would have been void anyway, leaving Snape quite happily to his previous method of torment. The Potions Master had nothing to lose, and, most likely, nothing to gain as well—still, the boy's story was likely to be amusing at least.

What Snape had believed would happen was nothing he had not seen many times before. Surely Potter, assured of his prank's success, would immediately take on that particular gleam in his eye that indicated mischief underway, and would half-smile at Severus. He would then utter something completely ridiculous (_well, the Born are actually a race of vampires that feeds solely on marshmallow fluff…_) and quirk his eyebrow in just such a way as to suggest that his Potions Professor was a complete idiot for even beginning to listen to his story.

But that, much to the Potions Master's surprise, was not the exchange that followed his own basic command. Instead, Potter's face underwent a startling number of changes in expression in a short moment, to the point where even the former spy struggled to keep up. Tiredness came first, and repeated more than once afterwards; surprise lingered on the facial muscles for the briefest of moments; and, for an instant, Severus could have sworn that he could make out regret and the barest hint of loathing. The boy was, as always, an open book to the Potions Master, the issue being that said book was written solely in some incomprehensible language—Snape could get the pages revealed and look at that which was contained within, but was always left guessing at the interpretations. For the moment, his best guess was that the surprise and regret were turned internally—if he was right, then Potter's decision to reveal his race, to shatter the secrecy of his people, had been an impulsive sort of thing, one that he could not retract now. There entered the loathing: either Potter hated Severus for provoking him, hated the rules of his society for demanding such secrecy in the first place, or, and Snape thought this most likely, hated himself for ever opening his mouth.

The boy at least had the common sense not to go back on the magically-sealed bargain; instead his expression settled finally on weariness, and the confidence of his posture drained away. "That isn't a question," the boy said at last. This statement was slightly incongruous with Snape's previous line of thought, and evidently Potter realized this, as he quoted for the sake of clarification, "'Tell me about the Born.' It isn't a question."

This, of course, was true, but it didn't change the fact that the Gryffindor was grasping at straws. "Very well," Snape intoned, all the while searching mentally for the proper wording for his questions. "How did the Born come into existence?" Not eloquent, but adequate, and no doubt any extra syllables would be lost on the boy anyway.

Potter tapped idly on the surface of his desk for a moment, seeming contemplative. "Would you prefer the technical explanation or the basic one?" he asked at last.

"I have taught you for eight years now, Potter," Snape snapped by way of an answer. "Can you even honestly ask that question?"

The boy offered the barest hint of a sheepish grin, just a twitch of his lips. "Technical explanation it is then," he said with a slight shrug. "I hate to ask two stupid questions in a row, but you do have a basic understanding of the Muggle concepts of genetics?"

"If there is anything you can say on the topic which is new to me, Mister Potter, I will be extremely shocked."

"Good. Though some of what I'm about to say might be repetitive, in that case, but I'm afraid I'll have to say it anyway. What I say to you now is what was told to me; I really don't know how to tell this in any other way." Potter licked his lips quickly, bringing his hands together on the tabletop and bridging his fingers together. "Wizards, contrary to popular belief, are not precisely human, but they used to be. Though many 'purebloods' would prefer to think otherwise, wizard kind found their origins in regular humans—Muggles. It wasn't even until the Neolithic Revolution that magic began to emerge in the human population."

"Until that time, humans had wandered the face of the earth, hunting and gathering to survive. They lived in small groups, and dared not settle in one place for too long. At the end of the Paleolithic Age, most of this changed; largely because the world's climate warmed dramatically at this time. The New Stone Age, the Neolithic Period, marked the beginning of villages, and farming—these things then led to the beginning of civilization. It is currently believed that something in the environmental or social changes of the time caused some sort of mutation in the human population, a random shift that led to the evolution of wizards. Their magic was nothing like ours is now, nowhere near as powerful or advanced, but it was useful for things like aiding the growth of plants. A lot of polytheistic religion was really based on the workings of wizards."

Seeming to realize that he was going off topic, Potter cleared his throat before continuing, "We aren't sure, exactly, but my people assume that our race started not too long after that. Just like wizards, we started off in the human population, in the form of another mutation. Unlike the change that allows wizards to access magic, however, the gene that codes for Born vampirism is expressed much more… violently. Wizards, except for their magic, are mostly human—Born vampires aren't. To make a long story short, humans couldn't survive the change, and anyone with the gene ended up dying at birth."

"Usually, this would mean that the gene would die out; really, we've the wizards to thank for our existence. At a best guess, a witch of some great power was acting as a midwife when one of these children was born. She felt that something was going wrong, and just willed her magic to fix it; and, somehow, her magic did just that. It fixed a repressor over the gene, forcing it to remain unexpressed. The baby in which this repressor was attached survived, grew to adulthood, lived a normal life and died completely human. Now, either this witch was extremely busy, or she alerted her colleagues to do the same thing, because, rapidly, the majority of the Muggle population began to contain this same repressed gene. Infant deaths at the time were high—my people believe that our genetics were partially responsible."

"For some time, the Muggle population merely held this gene, unknowing of what it truly was. Wizards are of the same species as Muggles, which means that wizards are able to reproduce with non-magical humans, but the differences in their genetic codes meant that the offspring of wizard-Muggle crosses were less likely to survive than any other children of the time. Muggles had the repressed gene, wizards had magic, and the two things didn't mix."

"But one particular survivor of such a pairing had both her mother's magic and her father's repressed gene. She wasn't the only one, of course, but, for some reason, something in her was different. The only thing we know for sure is that her repressor's hold on the gene was weak, weaker than any those of any who came before or after her. Somehow, without any real trigger, the repressor sort of just slipped away when she was about twenty-five."

"Normally, the expression of the gene was fatal, but in her, things were different. Instead, her magic allowed the orders of the gene to be carried out in such a way as to be painless, effortless. The genetic code of her entire body was rewritten in a single month, thanks again to the power of her magic. At the end of that month, she was one of us, my people—the first of the Born."

"She realized what she was quickly enough; we have to, or we're given a sudden jolting revelation in the form of our hunger. I don't envy her what had to come next. Unlike the rest of my kind, she had no one to explain her changes, no one to tell her how to handle the effects of our Change. It's extremely likely that she killed at least one person she cared about before she started learning how to control herself. For a long time, she was probably alone—my kind are rare."

"We don't know everything about her, but we know that she was feeding almost exclusively on humans. Maybe it was easier; by all accounts, she was beautiful. It wouldn't have been too difficult to lure people to her, whereas you actually need to hunt animals. Also," and this next Potter said almost wistfully, "from what I hear, human blood is far more filling."

"One of the humans she fed on was like her—a weaker repressor, magic, the works. Until she fed on him, his repressor had held strong; immediately after she began to feed, however, she triggered the release of this repressor. She realized right away what she'd done, helped him through his Change, taught him everything she'd learned."

"They were the first of us, and, over time, more followed. We live for a long time; forever, actually, so far as we can tell, just so long as we aren't killed in war or the like. Most of what I know has been passed from the oldest of my kind still alive now—the first of our kind, as well as about a hundred of us that were created after, are dead now, but the rest of us survive yet."

At this, Potter lapsed into silence, staring absently at the dark surface of the desk in front of him. His fingers, still laced together, separated; one finger trailed nonsensical patterns across the table.

Snape was equally silent, though for entirely different reasons. He'd expected a prank going into this deal, had expected nothing serious to come of it. Instead Potter had spun out a story reaching back to the beginnings of humanity, and had spoken of with genuine emotion. Either it was the most elaborate prank Snape had ever crossed, one which Potter had plotted and perfected for some time, or, somehow, impossibly, an entire race of elusive vampires existed right under the nose of the wizarding world. He was loath to admit the latter, knowing what kind of repercussions such knowledge could have—but then, even a slighted Potter had not the patience for such a thing as this, and the way he had spoken of the woman with such compassion…

Severus opened his mouth, fully meaning to ask something along the lines of _are you really serious?_ Somehow, however, the message warped itself between his brain and his lips, until what emerged was the completely unrelated, "Did she have a name?"

Potter's gaze jerked upwards at this, and one of his dark brows raised in puzzlement. Snape, honestly, was somewhat surprised as well—for just a second, his voice had held something like caring for a woman he had never met, for a woman he'd only just heard of. Returning to his usual caustic tone, he clarified, "The first of your kind, Potter, did she have a name?" It was, he knew, a second question, and technically Potter had full rights to deny him an answer, but he doubted that the Gryffindor would do so.

He knew he had been right when the boy's wistful look made a reappearance. "Yes," Potter said simply, "she did. But every time I try to pronounce her name, I make a mess of it, so I've stopped trying."

Somehow, this was the final bit of proof that Severus required. The simple gesture of respect Potter made by refusing to mispronounce the woman's name was the sort of thing that was difficult to fake, and, honestly, there was no way that Potter was this good of a liar.

Which meant that Born vampires _existed_.

Severus reeled at this information, mind once more flooding with the questions he'd pushed away. He had never worked on the assumption that everything in the world had been discovered, dissected and analyzed as some did, but, at the same time, he'd largely felt that discoveries at this point consisted of compounding on previous theories and the occasional finding of a new variety of insects. The very idea of an entire race of sentient beings surviving off of any radar was nearly implausible to Snape, even when the proof of such a thing was sitting in front of him tapping his fingers and revealing stories of his people. How had they never known?

"How are the Born different from the vampires the wizarding world knows about?" he queried, knowing even as he voiced this question that Potter was never going to answer it.

And, as expected, the Gryffindor offered him a slight shake of his head. "That's a second question, and I'm not obligated to answer more than one per night."

Anger. The Potions Master had not been expecting the volatile emotion, but it flooded his veins nevertheless. How dare Potter tantalize him so, only to withdraw his information? Channeling the ill temper, Snape summoned a sneer. "Well, Potter, I'd suggest you retrieve that knife of yours and set about preparing another set of ingredients. It is not yet midnight, and, in the absence of more story-telling, you'd best make yourself useful, as hopeless a task as that may prove to be."

Potter, who had been acting relatively calm for the majority of this evening, seemed to sense the change in mood and respond in kind. "Yes, _sir_," he said with all the sarcasm he appeared to be able to call up, resentment in his green eyes once again.

The rest of the evening was spent in frigid silence—Severus, entertaining a mix of curiosity, anger and irritation, vented his frustrations not at the boy in front of him but rather at the woefully inadequate essays he'd planned to grade within the next few days; Potter, blade back in hand, had satisfied himself with cutting plants with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. It was almost odd, but it was almost as if, in the wake of Potter's story, they were both at least somewhat unwilling to start a fight between them; though the story had not pertained to Potter in anyway, something in the boy's expressions as he told of his race's start had made the history seem personal.

When midnight struck, the knife disappeared into its holster and Potter shoved the plants aside, meeting the Potions Master's eyes with a vaguely challenging gaze. The next words out of his mouth, seemingly a casual farewell, were turned hostile by his tone. "I'm leaving."

Severus merely raised an eyebrow imperiously and said, "Be on time time on Wednesday, Potter."

The boy nodded sharply before rising, crossing the room quickly and nearly throwing the door open. It seemed the Gryffindor was quickly gaining a penchant for exiting his classroom somewhat violently—Snape suspected that if the situation was not rectified soon, he would be requiring a new door shortly.

_"Did she have a name?"_ Really, of all the useless questions—Severus shook his head. He had clearly been neglecting his rest beyond acceptable levels, if tiredness was causing him to act so soft all of a sudden. It had to be exhaustion; clearly an idiot like _Potter_ could have nothing to do with it.

Extinguishing the lights of the room, Snape made quick work of exiting his classroom and setting out for his bed. He obviously needed sleep—he had classes later that morning, after all. And if he remained agreeable, there was no telling what his students would get into. It wouldn't do to let the Gryffindors start getting ideas.

.........................

Harry Potter had never been more thrilled to escape his best female friend in his life.

After the supremely odd session with Snape the previous night, he had once more returned to Gryffindor tower, expecting to be ambushed once again by his overly curious friends. However, in what had been the first bit of good luck Harry had had all week, Hermione had apparently begged exhaustion some hours before and slipped off to bed. Ron had still been lying in wait; then again, Ron was not the one who continued to catch him sneaking about. Without the observant Hermione there to help him, Ron had completely missed the stealth-trained Gryffindor—Harry succeeded in reaching his bed without incident.

For one reason or another, breakfast the following morning had been surprisingly free of inquiry. The 'sky' of the Great Hall's ceiling had been bright blue and almost utterly cloud free, with enough sunlight to promise warmth, meaning that Ron had immediately been sidetracked by the promise of clear skies for a bit of flying. Hermione's own quietness had been something of a shock to both boys until Harry had, suddenly and embarrassingly, caught a lingering smell of blood hanging about the girl. He had very nearly been idiotic to ask exactly why she was bleeding, but had caught himself in time to snap his mouth shut, flush brightly, and speculate quietly to Ron about what might be causing Hermione's change in mood. The red-head had merely gazed at him, horrified, before being extremely careful to do nothing to set her off.

Unfortunately, that happened to be the day when most of his and Ron's schedules overlapped with Hermione's, making it almost impossible to avoid angering the girl in some way. In Herbology, Harry was grabbing the roots of their day's project too tightly and was sure to kill it; History of Magic had found the girl crying over the fate of a sect of Goblins in what had to have been at least the forty-fifth Goblin Rebellion (one thing you certainly could say about Goblins was that they were nothing if not persistent); in Charms, Ron had apparently been utterly mutilating the proper wand movements and was lucky he had yet to set himself aflame. Harry had never expected that he would seek solace in Divination class, of all things, but, seeing as Hermione had long ago abandoned the class for Ancient Runes, it was the only reprieve from her behavior he had all day.

And by all day he did quite literally mean all day—at the end of Charms, their last class of the day, Hermione had basically dragged her friends to the library in an impressive show of strength, and proceeded to tell them that they would be doing their homework, provided they ever planned to succeed in life. On any other day, this would have been all well and good, but that particular day had both Harry and Ron staring wistfully out the windows and drooling over the weather outdoors. This situation was only exacerbated by the fact that Harry had had very little homework that day to begin with.

Finally, largely thanks to a valiant and hugely melodramatic sacrifice on Ron's part—which had actually included the Weasley shouting, "Go on without me!" across the library before being rounded on by an irate Madam Pince—Harry had been able to make a dash for the doors without Hermione noticing.

So here he was, free at last and headed towards the exit closest the lake. Just so long as Hermione either did not notice his absence or chose not to act on it, he should be perfectly able to spend the afternoon lounging in the sun by the lake and maybe doing a bit of flying if he felt like it.

Harry whistled slightly under his breath, turning the last corner between him and the exit and striding towards the sunlight.

"Harry!"

For a moment, he cringed reflexively, as the voice calling his name was distinctly female in voice; then, realizing that the tones did not belong to his currently moody best friend, he turned just in time to be rabidly hugged by a familiar female form. Harry nearly staggered under the sudden addition of weight before catching his balance and bothering to see just who had hugged him. At the sight of the flaming red hair neatly brushed and tamed, he smiled and returned the hug. "Ginny," he said, somewhat relieved, "you have no idea how happy I am to see you right now."

The youngest Weasley pulled away from the contact and grinned back at him. "I haven't seen you since the beginning of summer," she said, giving him a once over. "It's good to see you again. Your hair is still a mess, though."

He chuckled. "Same old Ginny, I guess. Were you headed somewhere before you decided to abruptly tackle me, Gin?"

"Yeah," Ginny replied with a gesture towards the exit, "outside. It's a shame to waste a day like this sitting around indoors."

"I agree with you completely. Hermione, however, is in one of her moods, and would be more likely to smack me over the head with a book and drag me back to the library than to hug me at this particular moment."

"So that's why you looked a half-second away from sprinting towards the exit," Ginny concluded with a chuckle. "Come on, then. You'll be safer from Hermione's wrath if you can get down to the lake and hide behind the squid."

"And here I thought you would protect me, Ginny," Harry said in mock-disappointment. "The squid is an acceptable alternative, though."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Come on, then. Your knight in soaking armor awaits."

There was a particular spot by the lake which Harry and Ginny had claimed at some point in the previous year; granted, they had been dating then, but it was still frequented by the two whenever they got the chance. Harry was extremely glad that Ginny had taken the break-up so well, all things considered; he would miss her company otherwise, for all that he had realized she was more of a sister to him than a lover.

Upon reaching this spot, Ginny lay down on her back and tugged at his arm until he dropped gracelessly down next to her. After a few moments of idle cloud gazing, Ginny said at last, "Whatever it is you feel like saying, Harry, you can feel free to say."

"How is it that you always know when I'm keeping secrets?" Harry wondered lazily, echoing a question he had asked more than once in the past.

"That's for me to know and you to guess," the Weasley supplied with a smile, before nudging him with her elbow. "Come on, then, Harry, _talk_."

There was a moment's pause, then Harry gestured to a cloud and said with a smile, "That cloud looks like an ice cream cone." Her elbow made a second, significantly more painful, reappearance, and Harry squawked indignantly. "What? All you told me to do was talk. Talking about clouds does still qualify as talking, last I checked."

Ginny scoffed. "Harry, quit being a prat and answer me honestly, okay?"

The older Gryffindor paused, running a hand through his hair. "Ron and Hermione are being kind of idiotic at the moment," he told her at last. "Every time I see them, it's like I've walked into a recreation of the Spanish Inquisition where I'm acting the part of the tortured victim. They won't leave me alone about it."

"And this 'it' would be what, exactly?"

Harry sighed. "If I don't answer you, you'll just torment me until I give up, won't you?"

"Pretty much," Ginny acknowledged, and Harry could feel her shrug beside him.

Grudgingly, he shrugged as well and said, "They want to know why I've been spending time with Snape." Harry had never been much of an empath; nevertheless, he could practically feel the curiosity dripping off his younger friend. "Don't you start too," he cautioned before Ginny had a chance to say anything, "or I swear I'll tell Fred and George that _you_ were behind last year's Horrific Spatula Incident or whatever they're calling it right now."

Ginny bit her lip and smiled sheepishly. "Point taken. Just...tell me these run-ins with Snape are of your own free will, alright? I promise that's all I'm going to ask."

Harry started to answer negatively, to tell her that he'd been basically blackmailed into the entire thing, and then paused. Ginny might seem like a mild-mannered sort, but she was Molly Weasley's daughter—one whisper of the word blackmail and she would immediately become indignant, demanding that it be stopped right away. Though that was one of the things he liked most about her, in this situation, it would help nothing. Besides, after last night, after the mutually beneficial deal that he and Snape had finally come to, Harry was surprised to find that some bit of free will did actually enter into the situation. After all, he could either share or hold back whatever information he chose, could control the flow of the sessions with his words. "Yeah," Harry found himself answering, "I go of my own free will."

What shocked him most was that it was true. He'd been casting a particular light on the entire thing, painting himself as a cornered, helpless victim at Snape's mercy, but that really wasn't it at all. The entire time, he had had options. Maybe not the best of options—it pretty much came down to Snape's death or slavery at the heart of it—but options nevertheless. Harry didn't have much free will, but he had _some_. That didn't mean he was suddenly Snape's biggest fan, but it did help to ease out the growing knots of pure hatred that had been forming in his stomach.

Ginny had been silent for the length of his mini-epiphany, and he really could have hugged her for that. As if sensing that he had rejoined the tangible world, she queried, "What's he like, then? Snape, I mean, when he isn't teaching or doing something he hates?"

Harry snorted. "I really wouldn't know, Gin. The man still despises me, in case you hadn't noticed."

The youngest Weasley cast him a confused look. "Then why are you going wherever you go if the man you're spending time with hates you?"

This edged towards the lines of enquiry Ron and Hermione had been following, but something about the way she voiced the question made it seem entirely different. Ginny, he decided at last, would welcome any scrap of truth, while Hermione and Ron seemed determined to drive onwards until the entire truth of the matter was bared before them. This difference established, he answered cautiously, "I said I went of my own free will, Ginny. That doesn't mean there isn't a long story behind all of this, one that I'm not willing to get into right now."

Ginny, as he'd expected, nodded slightly and seemed to mull over that information. "I'd like to ask you how Snape acts and what the two of you do, but I'd hate to pry like my brother's evidently been doing."

Harry smiled. "You just say that because you know I positively adore you, and you're sure that if you voice your questions properly I'd be extremely hard pressed to deny you the information you want."

"Well?" Ginny said, grinning. "Am I right?"

"Yes, you prat, you're right," Harry said. "I help him out a little, cutting up ingredients and the like. Mostly I talk about people I met over the summer, and he listens." There—that had just enough verity to ring true, and not enough to get Ginny on his case.

"My brother mentioned something about you having had mysterious adventures over the summer." Ginny rolled over to face him and winked suggestively. "Did you meet anyone _special_, Harry?"

"Not in the way you're thinking, Gin. Plenty of interesting people, and a lot of them ridiculously good looking as well, but no one that caught my eye particularly." Harry tilted his head to meet her eyes and smirked impishly. "Do you want to continue asking side questions, or would you prefer to have your original question answered?"

"I'm sorry if I have a short attention span," Ginny said protestingly. "Just answer the question."

"You wanted to know what Snape acts like, yeah?" The Weasley nodded, and Harry contemplated a moment before deciding to tell the truth. He could feel his expression darken. "Well, disappointingly, the man wasn't kidnapped by aliens and replaced by some nicer robot-Snape or something over the summer." Harry caught Ginny's expression at this and grinned. "Sorry. One of my friends from the summer had a serious passion for bad Muggle science fiction movies."

"And who has the short attention span here again?" Ginny questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Shut up," he retorted brilliantly, sticking his tongue out to further the grave insult. "Snape is himself, like he's always been." Then Harry's brows furrowed. "Well, most of the time. Some of the time he's actually almost civil, mostly when I'm the one talking. He just sits politely and seems interested, doesn't interrupt or mock or anything like that, and sometimes for just a second or two, I can see something like a genuine emotion on his face." Harry could feel himself frowning, and didn't bother to check the expression. "The next second the emotion is gone, and he's the same greasy git we all know and love. And then he insults Gryffindors—my parents—me—my friends—pretty much any topic he can think of that might make me angry. It's completely infuriating! For just a second, I feel like there might actually be a human being in amongst the sarcasm and the mockery, and then he's gone again. I never know how to act."

"Harry," Ginny said lightly, biting her lip and looking thoughtful, "don't take this the wrong way, but why do you care?"

That question Harry had not been expecting in the least; his extremely intelligent, "What?" showed that lack of preparation.

"Well," the red-head said, "you talk about not knowing how to act around him, and about how he seems human one moment and snarky the next. And you've told me the man still hates you, Harry, but when you talk about him, it doesn't sound like you hate him in return." Harry opened his mouth to protest and Ginny held up a hand. "No, let me finish. Normally, Harry, you'd just ignore all this, say it was just Snape being a bastard and give no more thought to the matter. But the way you're talking about it right now, like his actions actually matter you, it sounds like you wish the man was your friend."

Harry spluttered at this, then sniggered, and then broke into full out laughter. "I want to be _friends_ with _Snape_?" _Yeah_, Harry thought to himself, _'cause I always befriend sarcastic bitchy men who blackmail me into being their slave. Really, it just happens __**all**__ the time_. "Ginny," he said aloud, "that is the most ridiculous thing I've heard all year." Still laughing quietly, he rubbed at the corners of his eyes. "Thanks, Gin, I needed a laugh."

The red-head just looked at him skeptically. "I was being serious, Harry."

"I know. But, it's just, the idea of _me_ being friends with _Snape_!" And then Harry was laughing again, despite his best efforts to keep a straight face.

Ginny shook her head in mock-disgust, though Harry knew she could never stay genuinely angry at him for long. "Alright, Harry. Whenever you're ready to admit the truth, you can just find me—because, honestly, short of following you around holding cue cards, I'm not sure I can help you out any more than this. I think I'll go make at least a half-hearted attempt to spring my brother from Hermione's clutches, just so he isn't tempted to take it out on me later."

She stood, brushing off her robes and eying a single grass stain with great disdain. "I'll see you around, okay, Harry? And at least think about it." Then she smiled, turned, and walked away.

Harry, who was not nearly suicidal enough to risk Hermione's temper again that day, lay where he was for some time after. It really was a nice day, and talking to Ginny always did improve his mood, even when whatever she was saying was blatantly ridiculous.

The Gryffindor chuckled again, more quietly this time. The red-head was usually spot-on in her deductions, but _this_ one was about as far off base as she could have possibly gotten. There was absolutely no way that Harry Potter would _ever_ want to befriend Snape of all people.

That little corner of his mind, the same one that had argued with him at the beginning of this whole mess, reared up and whispered, _Well, those are famous last words if I've ever heard them_. But Harry, who had already moved on to other topics of thought, paid it no mind.

.........................

Wednesday, quite literally, started off with a bang.

Though Tuesday had boasted clear skies and high temperatures, Wednesday began with a whole different category of weather altogether: namely, thunderstorms. Where early morning sun had been the day before, now only dark rain clouds and brief flashes of light and echoing sound remained. If it had been possible for the populous of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to all wake and groan as one, this would have been the day for it.

Surprisingly enough, Hermione Granger's mood upon waking was significantly lighter than it had been the previous day.

When she descended from the Gryffindor Tower, it was already somewhat later than her usual early hour of awakening. Seamus, who had come down to catch up with his early-rising boyfriend, cheerfully informed her that he and Dean had accidentally kept their dorm awake all night, and Harry and Ron had pretty much dashed down to breakfast as soon as they possibly could. Hermione thanked him, then smacked him over the head lightly and reminded him of an exceptionally good quality silencing charm, before bidding him a quick farewell.

In light of this new information, Hermione did not wait in the common room as was typical of her in the morning, but rather went immediately on the the Great Hall. She passed very few students in the halls; the majority of those she did see were either stumbling about sleepily or alert enough to complain about the weather. She had no idea why the thunderstorm would have disturbed their sleep so badly—she managed to rest more deeply than was usual for her, and woke up the happier for it.

Upon actually reaching the large stone hall in which the students dined, she realized that the floating candles, usually unlit until night time, had been charmed to burn in an effort to alleviate the storm's darkness. The effect of this lighting in the relative gloom had rather interesting effects on the shadows lingering on the faces of her peers; approaching the Gryffindor table, she was amused to notice that Harry and Ron looked like they should be drinking blood rather than the pumpkin juice in their goblets. The thought of either of her friends being vampires made her giggle.

"Well," Harry remarked, sounding surprisingly awake given his lack of sleep the previous night, "you seem very cheerful this morning, Hermione. It is absolutely _lovely_ to see you."

Raising an eyebrow, Hermione surveyed the scene. Harry looked rather alert, without even the beginnings of exhaustion on his face—she suspected that Harry slept less than he claimed to as a general rule, and as such was well adjusted to a night without sleep—but his expression was marked by the precursors of irritation. Ron, meanwhile, looked thoroughly tired, and was now and then casting dark looks at the storm projected on the Great Hall's ceiling. When the Weasley finally met her eyes, she caught a familiar gleam in his eyes.

Hermione sighed. "Ron, you've been questioning Harry about Snape again, haven't you?"

"Of course not," the red-head protested, even as Harry nodded his head in the affirmative. A doubtful-yet-hostile glance on Hermione's part had Ron smiling sheepishly and offering, "Just a little."

The bookworm of the three rolled her eyes, "Honestly, Ronald, would it kill you to stop being immature? Harry clearly doesn't want to talk about it, whatever the situation may be." This earned her two disbelieving looks from her friends, each for entirely different reason, and Hermione just shook her head.

Really, Ron had no concept of boundaries. Of course Hermione was curious—who wouldn't be?—but she had both common sense and years of experience at understanding Harry. Questioning the Golden Boy was alright, up to a certain point; pass that, and no matter how hard you pushed, no answers would be forthcoming. Ron, she knew, was edging the line even now, and, if the boy kept pressing right on, he would never get the satisfaction he sought.

Ron, obviously, was oblivious to this, as he shrugged Hermione's question off almost immediately and returned to what he had been doing before. "Okay," the red-head said, "I've got one." Harry and Hermione rolled their eyes in tandem; Hermione shot her friend a glance which roughly translated to, _It's Ron, what do you expect?_ "So, over the summer, Snape had a magical accident where his consciousness moved to somebody else's body. You're working with the poor sap stuck in the greasy git, trying to release him before it's too late."

If _this_ was the line of inquiry Ron had begun to follow, Hermione could see why Harry might be on the verge of losing his temper. Harry, however, took it remarkably well, merely saying, "Ron, you were in the same Potions class as I was three days ago, correct?"

"Yeah," Ron said with a shrug, "what about it?"

"Did it sound like someone was possessing Snape's body while he was sneering at all and sundry and telling you that you had the relative intelligence of an amoeba? Or when he was taking off House points because I was, and I quote, 'an insufferable child who vastly overestimates his skill and is likely to explode _yet another_ Potion if his behavior if not corrected?'"

Ron winced, conceding the point. "Yeah, mate, you've got a point. Only the great bat himself could have a stick shoved _that_ far up his arse."

This earned the red-head a sharp, "Ronald!" from Hermione. Seeming somewhat chagrined, the Weasley subsided into silence for a moment, though Hermione was not so optimistic as to believe that the quiet would continue.

Indeed, about a minute later Ron perked up once more. "I've got it," he proclaimed, not seeming to notice Harry's head sinking heavily into his palm. "McGonagall decided you needed to master Occlumency, and talked the git into 'teaching' you again."

This, at least, seemed a bit more logical, but was still completely absurd when thought about for even a moment. Seeing as Harry looked all of fifteen seconds away from impaling the red-head with his fork, Hermione stepped in. "Think, Ron, for just a moment. Harry was only learning Occlumency for the war in the first place, and now that Voldemort," and she was extremely proud that her voice did not quaver in the least when she spoke his name, "is dead, Harry would have no use for it. There aren't many Legilimens in the world to begin with." Then Hermione smiled lightly and said, "And, no offense meant, but we all know that Harry is useless at Occlumency anyway."

"None taken" Harry said, voice filtering through his fingers. "I literally can't do Occlumency to save my life."

Ron shrugged. "Worth a try. Remedial Potions, for real this time?"

Harry snorted, shaking his head. "You've gone mental if you think Snape would ever teach me Potions. Actually teach, that is, not yell and taunt and give basic instructions like he does in class."

The Weasley seemed to contemplate for a moment, before saying, "It's the basilisk, isn't it? Down in the Chamber of Secrets, I mean."

If the red-head heard Harry whisper, "Yeah, because we've really come across so many other basilisks over time, it's difficult to tell which is which," he gave no inclination of this hearing. He seemed equally unaware of the light laugh Harry's comment provoked in Hermione. This, she thought, was less because Ron had actually missed the comment and response and more because he was actively not hearing them. Selective deafness was an inherited skill amongst the Weasley family, it seemed.

"Hear me out," Ron said. "Snape found out about the basilisk we killed just sitting down there, and he decided to use it for Potions ingredients. Since you're the only Parseltongue left in the world as far as we know, he's using you to get into the chamber, but because the basilisk is so large he needs to do it in trips."

Harry raised his head from his hands and graced the Weasley with a roll of his eyes. "Ron, the basilisk has been dead for six years already. I think any value it might have had will be gone by now."

This time, it was Hermione's turn to shake her head. "No, Harry; in a highly magical area like Hogwarts, at least the basilisk's scales and venom should remain potent for the next fifteen years or so. Given that there is probably some powerful additional magic within the Chamber itself, I'd guess that the majority of the basilisk would still work just fine in Potions for some time to come." Ron brightened visibly at this. "I'm not saying that makes Ron's idiotic theory any more correct, of course, but the idea in general has promise." The Weasley deflated slightly, and Hermione grinned; then her expression dampened. "We really should look into going back down and clearing away the debris at some point, Harry," Hermione said thoughtfully. "Basilisks are rare—the ingredients we would get from it would be extremely valuable, if nothing else."

Hermione had the feeling she'd lost Harry's attention sometime before; there was a particular look in his eyes that told her he was thinking quite deeply about something. At last her dark-haired friend muttered something under his breath, a long breathy sentence—though Hermione could not hear the majority of it, she could make out the end, this being, "…substituting basilisk scales."

Puzzled, the resident genius of Gryffindor opened her mouth to question Harry, only to be interrupted by Ron's disappointed, "Harry, I'm out of ideas."

"How will we ever survive?" Harry questioned wryly, earning himself an elbow in the side from Ron. Rubbing his hand over the point of impact woefully, Harry said, sounding more serious, "you could just leave it alone, Ron, I'm sure you'll survive your curiosity."

However, the Weasley seemed prepared to ignore this comment as well. After a moment, Ron bemoaned, "But, mate, it just doesn't make sense! We're talking about Snape, after all. Everyone knows you two absolutely hate each other. The only option I can see is that you're trying to make friends with Snape!"

Hermione had expected a reaction from Harry at this, but certainly not the one that followed; the black-haired boy tossed his fork onto his now-empty plate and stood from the table. "Would everyone please stop saying that! I hate the man, I'm not about to suddenly try and be his best friend!" Throwing his hands in the air in apparent disgust with the entire topic, Harry stepped away from his seat, gathered up his belongings and said, "See you in class, Hermione," before veritably storming out of the Great Hall. This, however, was not the most bizarre part of the entire experience, because, as Hermione turned around, she caught a glimpse of Ginny Weasley, seated a little ways away at the Gryffindor table. To her complete and utter confusion, the little red-head was grinning almost maniacally in the direction Harry had disappeared in, looking as though a winning lottery ticket had fallen out of the sky and landed in her lap.

Ron, meanwhile, was gazing after Harry as well, looking absolutely bewildered. "Well, that was unexpected," the red-head got out at last, eyes still stuck on the main doors of the Great Hall.

"Honestly, Ronald," Hermione nearly snarled, before grabbing her possessions as well and stepping away from the table. She didn't know what had set Harry off, but it seemed she would have to take care of some damage control nevertheless.

As the Great Hall's doors swung shut behind her, she could hear Ron's confused tones. "Was it something I said?"

.........................

Sometimes, Snape very much regretted having been forced to beat some bit of stealth into Potter's brain, for the sole reason that Potter was surprisingly _good_ at it.

He wasn't sure if it was just the thunderstorm—which had escalated to the point where it was both audible and visible within the dungeons—but he had had a strange feeling all day. It had started as a tingle up his spine, and had gradually increased in intensity until, after dinner as Snape sat within his classroom awaiting the Gryffindor brat, the Potions Master was almost certain that _something_ was going to happen. What that something was, he'd no idea, but he had had such instincts more than once over the years and had learned to trust in the feelings.

He was certain, at least, that the lightning and thunder had done nothing but exacerbate the fraying of his nerves. It was somewhat disquieting to sit in the dark in the empty Potions classroom, only to have everything illuminated every few seconds by a flash of light—the pallor of the lightening gave a sickly glow to everything within the room in those moments, and cast odd shadows across the floor. Severus was no child, to be afraid of a little inclement weather, but that did not mean that he was in any way comforted by it either.

Shortly before Potter was due to arrive, Severus had been reclining in the somewhat stiff chair present behind his desk, setting to words the results of a recent experiment he had undertaken. With any luck, he hoped to finish the documentation of the new and successful Potion by the end of the week, and, after a careful editing process, submit it into the world to be reviewed by his peers and published. His mind, however, had not been entirely focused on his work; some small part of him was, as always, surveying his surroundings, to ensure that he was not caught unawares.

It was because of this little part that Severus noticed when the door to his classroom swung open with a loud creak.

There had been no knock—Severus would most certainly have heard that, and responded as such—and no indication of just who might be standing behind the door. To Snape's great annoyance, the door's motion was of exactly the sort so frequently shown in Muggle horror films; slow, infuriatingly slow, the dark wood swung open by increments, meaning that it took a matter of seconds for it to open far enough for Severus to discern exactly who was intruding on his classrooms.

Which was, going by eyesight alone, no one. The doorframe was empty, without even the slight glimmer that indicated a spell for invisibility. Holding his breath, Severus cast his focus to sharpening his hearing, searching out the tell-tale breaths that would give away someone standing under an invisibility cloak—there was no sound of breath anywhere nearby. A quick magical search yielded the same results. There was simply no one in the door.

Immediately, Snape's mind jolted to escape routes and battle tactics—his body slipped easily into the measured tension of its battle ready state, a magical hum rising around him as his magic charged itself. Most likely, this was nothing more than a student playing a prank; if this were not the case, however, the intruder would rapidly find themselves utterly outclassed in battle. For a moment, the absolute stillness remained.

Then came a loud crash of thunder, followed by a green-white burst of light that burned into Snape's eyes and lit up the classroom. After a moment, the lightening faded away, leaving the room once more perfectly dark.

When Snape adjusted his vision to this darkness a moment later, his gaze caught on a figure leaning against his doorframe, one that had most definitely not been there moments before—a figure that was most distinctly a smirking Potter with glowing silver eyes.

After a long moment, the Gryffindor brat stepped through the door and ruined the entire effect by breaking into hysterical laughter. "Sorry, sir," the boy managed to get out through the chuckles, "but I just couldn't resist! Your expression was seriously priceless."

Severus Snape was _not_ amused. "Mister Potter, I trust you have not forgotten how to _knock_? Or do you frequently burst into rooms entirely uninvited solely for your own enjoyment?"

Potter seemed about to answer this facetiously, then thought better of it—all the light seemed to fade away from his still-silver eyes, leaving the irises more a washed out grey than the shining metallic color. "Sorry, sir," the Gryffindor said again, sounding far more inclined to mean it this time.

_Ten points from Gryffindor_ lingered on the tip of Snape's tongue, and, in any other scenario, he would have said them. But this was not school business, this deal of his with Potter, and if he planned on continuing to gain useful insight into the Born he would do better to leave the boy largely free of irritation. As such, Snape merely sneered and said, "Close the door, Potter. I'm sure you're capable of that, at least."

The boy's eyes went pure-silver once more, but he inclined his head and half-turned to do as commanded. In silence, he slid the door shut and crossed the room, running his fingers across desktops before reaching his chosen seat and sinking into it.

Intrigued, but not willing to use his question of the night to find out more, Snape pointed out dryly, "Potter, your eyes are a rather disturbing shade of silver."

Potter's eyebrows furrowed slightly at that, and then recognition crossed the silver optics and the boy relaxed. Reaching a hand inside a pocket of the casual hooded sweatshirt he was wearing, the boy retrieved a familiar metal flask and set about opening it. "I was using a specific ability to make myself move faster," the Gryffindor supplied before tugging the cap away and drinking a single sip of the liquid inside. After a moment, the silver of his eyes transitioned back into the usual jeweled green. The bottle was carefully closed and stored back away, not a single drop wasted.

This was admittedly interesting, and Snape made a mental note to ask about it later. For the moment, Snape steepled his fingers on his desk and said, "I presume you are ready to answer this night's question."

Potter seemed a bit confused by this, answering in the tone one used to address questions with obvious solutions, "Of course."

Snape smirked. "Good. I'd like to reiterate a question I asked last night—namely, how do Born vampires differ from the vampires the Wizarding World is already aware of? The Made, I believe you called them."

Potter thought a moment, biting his lips gently; then he sat straighter in his seat. "Alright. Now, again, I'm pretty much telling you word for word what my Progenitor told me, so feel free to interrupt if you think I've missed something."

"Progenitor?"

The boy leveled him with a glare that somehow carried a note of amusement. "Don't start interrupting yet. And as for Progenitors, I'll get to that in due time." Sitting back, likely to make himself comfortable, Potter continued, "My stupid question of the night: you won't be needing a refresher of what I said last time, will you?" Snape's expression clearly showed his answer to this quite clearly; the boy held up his hands in surrender. "Thought not. Okay. Well, there are a couple of key differences: number, legality, feeding habits, lifespan and general behavior, mostly. I'll start with telling you about the Made."

"Made are exactly what their name suggests—made, created. They are always, _always_ Muggles to begin with. No wizard can ever become a Made vampire; if you try to Turn a wizard, they are completely destroyed by their magic before the process completes itself. And, also, the Muggles who can be Turned into Made are those who hold the genetic code for being Born, but lack the magic necessary to undergo the transition on their own as Born do."

"I don't know the exact method of Turning a Muggle—amongst my people, creating a Made vampire is currently a punishment worthy of death." Severus could feel his eyebrows raise at this, but allowed the boy to continue. "There are actually a number of reasons for this. First and foremost is the fact that Made are, in essence, soulless monsters. Born vampires have the advantage of magic, which is useful for all sorts of things, and is especially helpful in keeping us sane. Made vampires don't have this. This leaves them in a bad place—constantly hungry for blood, they are perfectly willing to kill whatever they cross. They burn to ashes in sunlight, and they can't cross running water without magical aide. I could keep listing vampire stereotypes; almost all of them apply, except that the stuff about crosses and garlic is so much bullshit, really."

"The second reason why Made are outlawed is because the process of Turning them is apparently excruciating for both the Born and the Made involved. Remember, magic is required to survive the Change into being Born, and the Turn into being Made is no different. However, unlike the wizard-muggle crosses that result in Born, the Muggles who are turned into Made have no magic of their own. This means that the Born has to supply every drop of magic and guidance required for the process, effectively exhausting that vampire. Meanwhile, the poor Muggle being Turned has to feel their entire body shifting and changing, painfully, as they watch—very few Made come out of it sane, and those that do only do so because the Born Turning them was exceedingly careful."

"Because the Made are outlawed now, their numbers are no longer quite so high, but, once upon a time, they were almost quadruple the small number of Born. There's a long and rather politically involved reason for this; one I'm not getting into tonight, but you'll almost certainly want to know about later. The destructive nature of the Turning process means that their lifespan is only slightly longer than the average Muggle lifespan as well. Also, the Made feed frequently and with little discretion; they always kill when they feed."

"And now we come to the Born. As I've already told you, Born vampires result from wizard-Muggle crosses where the child inherits both the Born genetic code and magic from their parents. In addition, the repressors of their Born genetic codes have to be almost extraordinarily loose to begin with. Then the repressors on their genes coding for Born vampirism have to be released by a specific trigger; namely, they have to be bitten by a vampire. This begins the Change, where their magic reads this genetic code and alters their body over the period of a month to match the code. At the end of this period, the individual is now a Born vampire, with all the perks and downsides that brings."

"I'm sure you are intelligent enough to realize just how many conditions must be met for a successful Change; this, of course, means that the population of Born vampires is tiny. This is compensated for by the fact that, unless we are killed by war or we cease drinking blood, we live for what, at a best guess, we think is forever. As time has not yet ended, there's no way of saying for sure that we are immortal… but it's pretty damned close."

"Born vampires can age or remain youthful as they chose, meaning that we can live for thousands of years and still look twenty years old or so if we like. Because of our magic, we can do things like walk in sunlight without being harmed and so on. Also, unlike the Made, we have an actual social structure and government—which, again, is a topic for another night."

"A Progenitor, as you were so eager to know, is a Born vampire who bites and Changes a Muggle-wizard cross into a Born. This makes them almost like a surrogate parent, in charge of looking after those they Change and adjusting them to life amongst the Born."

"I'll tell you all about the values of our society when I go through the social classes and whatever." Potter's speech, which had been of surprisingly good quality up to this point, spiraled downwards slightly as he said, "Damn. I'm forgetting something, aren't I?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "You have neglected to tell me about how you feed, Potter, amongst other things."

The boy flushed. "Right. Well, unlike Made, we don't attack anything that comes near us with a pulse. I'm not going to claim that we don't kill, because some of us do. It's dangerous, just biting someone and feeding without draining them entirely; you never know if they have the genetic code necessary to Change or Turn, and if you pick wrong you'll have a Born or Made vampire on your hands. Mostly, though, we don't kill at all—in fact, we mostly only ever drink from one human in our entire existences."

Snape remembered an idle comment Potter had previously made, and voiced, "You mentioned in our last session that you had _heard_ human blood was superior. I take it this means that you have never actually tasted it?"

The boy nodded. "Yes. You see, when a Born bites someone—and by someone here I mean a witch or a wizard, no offense meant to Muggles—and does not drain them dry, just feeds a little and pulls back, our magic… well, the best description I've ever heard is that our magic links itself to theirs. They become our blood donors; if that wizard or witch is the first donor you take on, they are your Primary donor, or just Primary for short. A Born's Primary gains any number of benefits—Primaries live as long as their Born do, meaning that Primaries are also immortal unless they are killed or they chose to sever the link with their Born. The link between a Born and Primary also allows them limited access to each other's minds, and boosts the magic of both involved. Most Born vampires only feel the need to take on one donor, their Primary—some take on Secondary donors just to prove a point, but most of us only feed from our single donor in our entire lives."

"I assume that you have no Primary as of yet?"

Potter snorted. "We don't take on Primaries idly. Think—your Primary is someone who can read your mind in limited quantities, and who is so in tune with your magic that they can track you over limited distances. Though the relationship between a Born and Primary is not always sexual or romantic, many Born do take their Primaries as partners of this sort. Also, provided nothing goes wrong, your Primary stays with you for the rest of eternity. Does choosing a Primary sound like the sort of decision _anyone_ should make impulsively?"

Snape nodded, absorbing the information. It was, certainly, quite a bit of knowledge, more than he had truly been expecting, and even with his lauded intelligence he was not sure that he had understood it entirely. "Might I ask a few questions for clarification?"

"Sure," Potter said casually, offering something that might have almost been a smile.

"I am going to assume that you were Changed—that is the correct term, is it not?" At the boy's nod, Snape continued, "Very well. I assume you were Changed over the summer."

"Yes," the Gryffindor said, nodding. In what appeared to be a completely instinctive reaction, Potter raised one hand and pressed it gently to the side of his neck; then he seemed to realize what he had done and dropped it back to his side with a slight look of irritation.

"Where did you go?" The boy looked mystified by this, and Snape fought the urge to do something so plebeian as rolling his eyes. "Where did you first encounter the vampire that bit you?"

A slow smile spread across Potter's face. "I believe that was your subtle way of attempting to find out where Born vampires congregate."

"On the contrary, Mr. Potter," the Potions Master replied somewhat snappily, "you'll find there was absolutely nothing subtle about it."

The Gryffindor shrugged. "While we do actually have a capital," and the boy's hand raised in a halting gesture before Severus could even begin to speak, "that is another topic entirely. I can tell you that I met my Progenitor in Muggle London."

That did catch Snape by surprise, and he questioned, "Your people can enter a city filled entirely with Muggles and walk amongst them without alerting suspicion? Wouldn't that endanger the Muggles as well?"

"Look at it this way, professor," Potter said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "You've seen me in school so far. I've been here for a month, and the only one who knows the truth about my condition is a former spy, who survived largely because of his skills in observation. I can hunt animals and drink Blood Replenishing Potion to get by rather than feeding on humans. And outwardly, unless you catch me in very specific moments of hunger, I show no outward signs of being a vampire. Meanwhile, I am the youngest of my kind at this moment, and I have not yet taken a Primary. Most Born vampires have a steady donor of blood who ensures that they never get hungry enough to reveal themselves. Even if some sort of freak accident occurred, and they were drained of enough blood to reveal their condition, most of them have had at least a hundred years of practicing at casting concealing charms and the like. Disguised, and with their hunger sated, what would stop my kind from blending in safely with wizards or Muggles?"

"I take it that your Progenitor has a Primary, then."

"Of course my Progenitor has a Primary!" Clearly the boy believed Snape's assumption went without saying, though Severus had no idea as to why that would be the case—Potter grew sheepish not a moment later. "Sorry," he said, and Snape was almost shocked by the apology, "I keep forgetting you didn't spend your summer getting a crash course in everything to do with Born vampires. It basically comes down to this; my Progenitor is one of the oldest of my kind. It is common for new Born to wait a few years to choose their Primary, but usually they don't hold off for any longer than a decade or so. But my Progenitor is several thousand years old at the youngest. The very idea that he could survive that long without a donor is preposterous to anyone who knows anything about the Born."

"But if, as you said," Snape said, coming back to the point that was confusing him, " this Progenitor of yours has a blood donor, why would he have bitten you in the first place? You are rather adamant about the fact that having a Primary negates the need for any other source of blood—by all rights, then, he should have never attempted to drink from you."

"Accidents happen," Potter said, shrugging. Then: "No, I am allowed to deny you answers if they will take too long to explain."

"If I ask after your Progenitor's name, will you remain this difficult?" Snape asked, almost aghast to find that his tone had taken a turn towards being sullen. Fortunately, the boy seemed completely ignorant of this change.

Instead, Potter blinked. "You seem to have something of a fixation on names."

And that tore it. "I do not have any such fixation, Potter," the Potions Master said at something like a growl. "I merely ask for the sake of gathering information. As attaining knowledge has never been a priority of yours, I can see how you might mistake one thing for the other." Deciding that the Gryffindor did not yet look suitably cowed, Snape continued sharply, "I will not tolerate your insolence, Potter."

The boy seemed ready to protest, and his mouth set into an indignant frown. "I wasn't being _insolent_," Potter spat, "I was attempting to be—"

Potter never completed this sentence, cutting himself off sharply before the remaining words could be uttered. Whatever he had been about to say, clearly it was horrifying in nature, as the boy's face contorted into an expression that could only be classified as absolutely stricken. As if attempting to force the sentence down, the boy clamped his mouth shut, biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood. Then he proceeded to flush a dull variety of Gryffindor red and cast his gaze away, acting as though something fascinating had appeared on the surface of the table in front of him.

Snape raised one eyebrow, watching the unexpected reaction. "What, exactly," the Potions Master said, relishing a chance to cause the boy further discomfort, "prompted that particular response, Mr. Potter?"

Almost vehemently, the boy spoke one word sharply under his breath. Snape blinked. "I didn't catch that, Potter."

Raising his eyes once again, Potter proceeded to speak more loudly, though the former spy's lipreading abilities informed him that this word had a distinctly different shape than whatever the boy had muttered before. "I said, Duncan." Severus allowed his disinterested appearance to shift to one that was mildly questioning, and clearly the Gryffindor got the point. "My Progenitor's name is Duncan."

Snape opened his mouth, and Potter shook his head. "That's all I'm willing to say tonight," the boy said in a sudden show of reticence. "It's probably near midnight anyway."

Severus blinked, and at that moment thunder crashed once more through the room, surprising the Potions Master. It did not feel anywhere near as late as the boy claimed it was—furthermore, Snape realized he had bee unaware of the sounds of the storm for some time now, despite the fact that the torrential downpour seemed not to have slowed at all. It was extremely unlike Severus to relax enough to drown out his surroundings entirely, and this behavior was even odder in Potter's presence.

The Potions Master cast a quick _tempus_, and was vaguely shocked to notice that Potter was indeed correct—the illuminated numbers before him proclaimed the time to be only ten minutes before midnight. There was absolutely no way Severus had lost track of so much time merely listening to Potter's oration; absolutely no way, and yet there the proof was, shining across thin air in the dark Potions classroom.

Snape allowed none of this surprise to show, however, merely sneering at the boy and inclining his head slightly. "It would seem that you are correct. As very little of importance can be achieved in ten minutes, you will not be assigned a task this evening. I do, however, require silence from you so that I can attempt to complete the work I was cataloguing when you arrived."

Silence, at least, Potter seemed happy to give, and for ten minutes the boy sat in perfect stillness and quiet, not even going so far as tapping his fingers across the tabletop before him. The one time Snape bothered to glance up at the boy, merely to ensure the Gryffindor was not doing anything which would set the entire classroom aflame or something of the like, Potter seemed to be rather deeply involved in some internal task, as his expression was one of great concentration and slight disgust.

Finally, the time-telling charm indicated that the hour was precisely midnight, and Snape intoned coldly, "You may leave now, Mister Potter." Though the Potions Master did not deign to look up, he could track the boy's movements by the faint sound of sneakers scuffing across the stone floor and, moments later, the slight creak of the wooden door sliding open and shut.

Finally Severus was alone, with nothing to disrupt him but the occasional echo of thunder and the bare whisper of rain falling against the castle walls.

.........................

The Room of Requirement was perfectly silent.

Harry, having finally decided that it would be best not to run screaming through the halls after curfew, if only to avoid eating up what little spare time he actually had with detentions, had immediately detoured to the magical room upon feeling the need to rant overpowering him. By the end of his journey, Harry had been nearly sprinting—after having paced the required number of times before the entrance, he had entered a room slightly reminiscent of a Muggle insane asylum, which meant that he could punch the walls to his heart's content without ever hurting himself.

However, upon reaching the room, Harry found that he was disinclined to say much of anything at all. Instead, the Gryffindor sank cross-legged onto the cushioned floor and gave himself over to thought.

Though Harry had avoided humiliation earlier by cutting himself off before a certain sentence could be completed, he still knew full well exactly what he had meant to complete that sentence with. "I wasn't being _insolent_," he had said, and then continued, "I was attempting to be—"

_Friendly_. He'd almost told Severus Snape, bat of the dungeons and the original greasy git, that he'd been attempting to be _friendly_. Friendly—as in attempting to make conversation which might eventually lead to friendship. And that was what terrified Harry the most.

There was nothing about Severus Snape that would cause Harry to want to befriend him in the first place! After all, the man had spent going on eight years now making Harry's life as miserable as he possibly could. Severus Snape had been a villainous figure to the young Harry—a cause of more detentions, poor grades and headaches than any other single person in Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy's irritating tendencies paled in comparison—if he was in the mood for hyperbole, Harry might even say that Snape made Voldemort look approachable!

Severus Snape had hated Harry from day one. No, strike that, he'd hated Harry since before day one. He had hated Harry because he had hated James Potter, and maybe he had even hated him because he had, in his way, loved Lily Potter (née Evans). Either way, the pale sneering man had despised Harry before he had ever been born.

Harry knew that hatred had only been magnified by his resemblance to his father, and he knew that Snape still looked at him and saw James Potter staring back. What surprised him the most was that this no longer spawned a matching hatred in him, but rather brought on a feeling of injustice and vague embarrassment. Somewhere along the line, _I hate Snape_ had turned to _why won't he just open his eyes and see that I'm not the bully my father was_?

To his complete and total shock, Harry Potter found that he no longer hated Snape. Disliked the man, yes—he wasn't going to suddenly want to be Snape's best friend—but, at the same time, Harry was open to the possibility of friendship. Apparently, some rapidly growing sliver of Harry had decided that there was indeed something in the prickly Slytherin worth bothering with.

"I want to befriend Severus Snape," Harry said quietly, voice a mix of horror and revelation, and he felt as though it almost echoed in contrast to the former silence of the Room of Requirement. "_I_ want to befriend _Severus Snape_."

And Harry laughed, not cheerfully but almost hysterically, until he ran out of breath.

"Okay," he said, and this time his tone sounded much better adjusted to the idea, "okay. I want to befriend Severus Snape. But what," he continued aloud, trying to organize his thoughts by voicing them, "am I going to do about this? The man still hates me, and he still can't see that I'm any different from my dad. I want to befriend him, but so what? There's no way he'd ever voluntarily be anything but hostile towards me. So this doesn't have to be a problem—nothing I say or do will change how he acts towards me. Just behave normally and everything will be okay. There's no cause for panic here."

_You do realize—_

Harry had already had enough stress on that particular evening, and was most definitely not in the mood to deal with his cynical and more than slightly exasperating subconscious mind. "Oh, shut up," he said, rolling his eyes as he stood. "Stop attempting to be mystical and pithy and leave me alone. You can say _I told you so_ later if you like."

Before that moment, the Gryffindor had not realized that a mental voice could grumble in any way shape or form. This ignorance was quickly rectified.

Dusting off his Muggle jeans, Harry smiled at the wonderful silence. Significantly less panicked, Harry quickly made for the door of the room, exiting the magical chamber and slipping quietly into the dark corridors beyond. The whole situation was still somewhat surreal, but denial in general was not a very useful thing. Besides, now that the Gryffindor had gotten through the inevitable shock that the idea presented, he felt a little better about things already.

Nevertheless, Harry doubted he would be getting much in the way of sleep on that particular night.

.........................

Hermione was rapidly developing the opinion that she was fated to be perpetually perplexed in her best friend's presence.

Thursday morning had dawned to a sunny sky, the previous day's storm having passed over the night. Once again, Hermione had woken a bit later than was her norm, as a series of now scarcely remembered dreams had kept her from resting properly. When she had descended to the common room, it had been empty—a few minutes of waiting, however, had allowed her to be there when Harry staggered tiredly down the steps from the boy's dorm and informed her that Ron was still sound asleep.

Rather than waiting on the redhead, who was well known for oversleeping by that point, Harry and Hermione had left the Gryffindor tower together and made their way to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Upon reaching the large room, however, Harry had signaled that Hermione should get seats for them, and had detoured further up the Gryffindor table than their usual spots. She had been understandably confused to see him start talking to Ginny who was, as far as she knew, currently Harry's ex-girlfriend. However, she could not see any hostility in their postures; the two acted more liked friends than two people who had once been in a relationship.

As Hermione was a curious girl by nature, she had of course strained her ears slightly and caught what had to be the most unusual conversation she had heard all week.

It had started with Harry saying, quite plainly and rather loudly, "Please just kill me now."

For a moment the Weasley daughter had looked as confused as Hermione felt; then Ginny had brightened visibly and cast Harry a beaming smile. "You mean...?"

"Yes," Harry said, clearly better informed about what the redhead was talking about than Hermione was, "you were right. Which is kind of terrifying, but there it is."

"Seriously?"

"Gin, you should know better than to doubt me here. I don't joke about things like this."

Hermione had not thought Ginny could look any more cheerful, but she found herself in error as the redhead's grin widened even further. "I hate to say I told you so..."

"Who are you kidding?" Harry had asked, looking as though he was fighting the urge to snort. "You absolutely love doing just that."

"You know me too well," Ginny had said then, followed by, "and what are you going to do about it?"

"My current plan is pretty much to run and hide."

"What kind of Gryffindor are you?" The Weasley's voice was indignant.

Harry scoffed. "A sane one. And a hungry one, so if you don't mind...?"

"Oh, go eat breakfast, you great prat."

Harry had waved Ginny's insult off, cast a smile in her direction, and walked back down the length of the table to drop into the empty seat next to Hermione. He had immediately started up on a new topic and refused to even discuss the slightest particulars of his conversation with Ginny, despite Hermione's best efforts. Harry's newfound skills of evasion and conversational manipulation were getting old extremely fast.

Hermione was reminded of a Muggle saying, "Curiosity killed the cat." And since polyjuice and the wrong set of hairs had once turned Hermione into a giant feline, she figured that she qualified. It certainly felt as though her curiosity was killing her, anyway.

Given the way that things were going, and given Harry's unusual tight lipped silence, there would be no satisfaction to bring her back.

.........................

Draco Malfoy was, by nature, something of an impatient person.

He'd been told this was a trait he'd acquired from his father, though he disliked considering the slight personality flaw in this manner; it was bad enough that he had his father's white-blond hair and his father's distinctive eyes, to hear his mother tell it. It wasn't so much that Draco hated his father, as, now, with the war over and a proper chance at freedom, Lucius had begun to redeem himself for the difficulties Draco had been put through; rather, it was that Draco's pride would not allow him to think of himself as a mere amalgamation of his parents. Lucius Malfoy was impatient, and Draco Malfoy was impatient; the two things, in Draco's mind, had nothing to do with each other.

....And the sheer fact that he'd had time to ponder this line of thought meant that Potter was already horribly late.

Sitting at a library table, back perfectly and aristocratically straight despite the awkward curve of his chair, Draco allowed his fingers to drum out a beat against the dusty table. Hogwarts' library had never been a favorite location of Draco's, as the air was staler here than it could sometimes be in the Slytherin dungeons, and that was saying something. Besides, the weather had just taken a turn for the better after the previous day's rain, and, though Draco's pale skin would not attest to it, the Malfoy was in the habit of spending as much time outdoors as he could arrange to. When Potter finally did arrive, he would not find the Malfoy heir's temper to be an especially pleasant one.

Draco turned his attention to the books scattered across the surface before him. Doubting that his useless Gryffindor partner would have done anything in the way of research, Draco had arrived a little ahead of time and pulled a few books off of the shelves which promised appropriate fodder for their project. He hadn't expected to find anything on the topic he'd been considering, but, to his immense surprise, he'd found a few helpful tomes. Now all that was left was to get Potter to agree—somehow Draco suspected that this would be the most difficult part of all.

He was so absorbed in the text before him that he did not notice the sound of Potter's approach until the dark-haired boy had sunken gracelessly into a chair opposite him. "Hello, Malfoy," Potter greeted, sounding hopeful and wary in equal measures.

Years of training at suppressing his true reactions allowed Draco to avoid jumping in reaction to the sound of Potter's voice, but internally the Malfoy heir was scolding himself vociferously. It was a cold day in Hell when a Gryffindor moved too stealthily to be heard by a Slytherin; and when had Potter gotten so silent anyway? Draco said none of this, however, merely offering in cool tones, "Potter, you're late."

Potter raised one eyebrow and brought his elbow up to lean on the table, resting his chin in his hand. "I'm on time," he protested, though there was no real vehemence in his voice. "You chose to come early."

"Excuse me for wasting _my_ precious free time to do research for _our_ project, Potter. I suppose you've already researched a topic that would be adequate for our purposes? Because, if that isn't the case, I would suggest that you not criticize me." Draco topped this off with the traditional Malfoy sneer, hands resting elegantly on the table top.

Potter shrugged. "Alright. I didn't mean to offend your delicate sensibilities."

"Delicate—!" Draco opened his mouth, meaning to unleash a furious tirade Potter's way, just to show the other boy _exactly_ what Draco thought of his opinion, but then Potter raised his free hand placatingly. Lips set tightly, Draco allowed himself to drift into an irritated silence.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy," Potter said, and Draco was thrown for a loop. "I didn't exactly plan that the way it came out."

The Slytherin of the pair fixed his partner with an extremely skeptical glance. "I'm extremely curious to know what you _did_ mean to say, Potter, if that is the case."

For a long moment, the Gryffindor was silent. Then Potter raised one hand and ran it through his messy hair, sighing. Raising his head from his hand, Potter caught Draco's gaze and held it unblinkingly, deep green eyes staring into his almost apologetically. "I'm starting this off all wrong," Potter said, shrugging slightly. "I'd meant to come in here and calmly, maturely suggest that we enter into a truce for the sake of getting a higher grade, but... well, you saw how that worked out."

"A truce?" Draco's initial instinct was to sneer again and mock Potter for the mere idea, but something about the tint of Potter's gaze made him reconsider. Biting his lip—a terrible habit, Draco knew, but he cared little about Potter's opinion of him—Draco spent a long moment thinking it over. "I'm not sure we're capable of being civil to each other," the Malfoy heir said after some little time, which was most likely not the answer Potter was looking for, but was the only honest reply he could give.

Potter's lips quirked into what might almost have been a grin, then settled back into neutrality. "I know," Potter said, shoulders lifting into a shrug again, "but, at the very least, we can try."

As he was a Slytherin, and as such not the type to enter blindly into agreements, Draco asked, "What would the terms of this truce be?"

"A verbal ceasefire would be in order, to begin with." Draco scoffed hearing this, and this time Potter's grin was clearly visible. "I know—but again, it's worth a try. Physical fighting would clearly be banned as well, either magically or the good old fashioned Muggle way."

"Are you planning on putting a stop to harmless pranks as well?"

Potter snorted. "I'm optimistic, Malfoy, not completely mental. Pranks are to be kept to a minimum, but I can't honestly expect them to stop entirely."

"You may be somewhat more intelligent than I gave you credit for, Potter," Draco said, tone slipping into something dangerously close to amiability. Then, serious once more, the Malfoy heir cautiously offered, "That truce would be agreeable to me."

Potter extended a hand over the table, and Draco felt his breath catch. If Potter's expression was anything to go by, Draco was not the only one thinking back to their first year at Hogwarts. Confirming Draco's assumptions, Potter muttered softly, "Well, there's a role reversal if I've ever seen one." Then, louder, and with that same quirking grin: "We have an accord, then?"

Draco clasped Potter's hand with his, the feeling of that slightly calloused palm pressed against his own smoother skin more welcome than he would have anticipated. For a moment, the Malfoy heir considered that it was almost like starting over from the beginning; an instant later he shook away the clichéd line of thought and presented Potter with a smirk. "Truce," Draco agreed, before releasing Potter's hand.

The grin on Potter's face lingered a moment before falling away. "You were right, earlier," he said, looking somewhat sheepish.

"I'm always right," Draco said, with just the proper touch of facetious arrogance, "so I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more specific than that."

"I was late," Potter admitted. It was almost impressive—Potter did not yet trust him enough to allow actual candid sharing, meaning that this bit of honesty was meant deliberately, as a way to reinforce the truce. The Slytherin was an able manipulator himself, and immediately recognized this, but Potter offered his unprompted truth in such a way as to be unobtrusive and unoffensive, merely reminding Malfoy of their agreement. "And, I've also yet to start research for this project."

Draco's expression shifted to practiced indifference. "I was expecting that," the Malfoy heir said, matching a truth on Potter's part with one of his own. "On the assumption that we would need to choose somewhat quickly, I've already done a little research on a topic I was considering."

"I'm open to anything topic wise," Potter said. "What have you been looking into?"

And _this_ was where it became difficult. "You may not like it," the Slytherin cautioned, attempting to ease in gently. "The magic itself is...unsanctioned, as it were."

Draco had not been aware of just how relaxed Potter had truly been in his presence until all that relaxation melted away. Where a calm eighteen year old boy had sat moments before was now a tense, battle-trained young man, all sharp edges; the warmth left Potter's eyes. "Don't dance around it," Potter said, voice cold. "If it's bad enough that _you_ are shying away, I'm willing to bet it's at the very least ancient and Dark."

"It isn't Dark magic, Potter," Draco said, and his tone had cooled in defense. "Or at least, not entirely. It depends entirely on the wielder and their intent."

Potter shook his head. "Say it, Malfoy. Whatever it is, just say it."

Draco had the feeling that this wasn't going to be pretty. Summoning his best sneer, Draco slid one hand inconspicuously under the table and closed his fingers around his wand, fully prepared to defend himself if it came to that. "I think," he said, and his voice was befitting of the current acknowledged 'king' of the Slytherins, "that we should research Blood Magic."

**And another long one. I sincerely hope that was worth the wait.**

**This chapter, for anyone who cares, was originally designed to be twice this long—then I realized it was going to be ridiculous and split it into this chapter and next chapter. This means that some of the next chapter is already written, and I promise you I'll be slaving away over it shortly.**

**Dedication challenge #1 (yes, there are two this time)~ The title of this chapter was sort of stolen from a quote by a famous author. If you can name that author (Google-ing is allowed), the next chapter goes out to you.**

**Dedication challenge #2~ Much as I hate to admit it, I suck at writing summaries for stories. Seeing as I don't quite like the summary I have now, I'm thinking of changing it—but, of course, I have no idea of what to change it _to_. Any reader who can come up with a summary I like better than my current one also gets a dedication next chapter. Also, any reader who succeeds in this challenge gets oodles of love from me. (C'mon, you know you want to :P)**

**....................**

**Review replies:**

**Yuna's Aeon~ Thanks for reviewing, first of all. I'm glad you're enjoying—hopefully by this point I've cleared up at least a few questions. (And yes, reading review replies in English or writing during the class were the only way to make it bearable....thank god for summer.)**

**mrscakeakajane~ Well, although your suggestion for the 'D' was incorrect, it was actually really interesting to think about. You may have sparked a plot bunny in me for another story, and for that, thanks. And, though the questions were all fairly basic in this chapter, they do start getting more personal shortly. I hope you keep reading and reviewing!**

**sanystyle~ Thanks for your review and your praise. I'm hoping the information Snape gets about the vampires is interesting, mostly because I've been brainstorming about the Born for months and I think I did a fairly good job. :P I hope you continue to read and enjoy.**

**Silver Tears 11~ Thanks very much! Actually, Donovan would be a really cool name for a vampire... I may have to use that name at some point in the future. :) I'm glad you're reading, and I'm sorry I made you wait so long!**

**Slash Superqueen~ I really hope you were successful in your plan to find the clouds and put them back in the sky—if you couldn't find them, you can borrow some of the clouds from around my house.... we've had nothing but clouds and rain for a solid month, and we'd be happy to be rid of them. It would be ridiculously tragic to lose your plants right after the horrible death of your pet rock, so with any luck both they and the watering can are doing alright. Please keep reviewing—you make me smile. :)**

**ams71080~ Thanks for the review. Please continue to read and enjoy. :)**

**Sir Uoy Ylno~ I'm glad you're enjoying the tension. Unfortunately, I'm not planning on bumping this story's rating up.... but there will be at least one lime present in this story, not explicit enough to merit an 'M' rating, but edging the line. :D I hope your boyfriend enjoyed, and thanks. Please keep reading and reviewing. :)**

**Rion Kerr~ You seriously have no idea how much I appreciate your enthusiasm—your reviews make my day. :D You were right, once again, for the dedication (keep this up and you'll have a one shot coming your way in no time). I'm so, so sorry I made you wait so long (hopefully your finals weren't soul consuming or anything like that.) Thanks, thanks, thanks for all your praise. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please keep reviewing! :)**

**SageKage~ Congrats on getting the dedication challenge right. At risk of revealing future plot, I can't say too much, but lets just say the scenario you dislike won't be playing out—I have plans for Hermione. :) Thanks for reviewing, and I hope you continue to read and enjoy!**

**Foret Interdite~ Hey, I'm glad to see you're still reading. This chapter was, obviously, delayed, but I hope it met your expectations. Good guess for the dedication—Donovan was actually the most common answer for that, and it's quite close as well. Please keep reading and enjoying!**

**loretta537~ Thanks for reviewing, and thanks for the complement. And Lupin will find out soon, though I haven't quite decided how soon. :)**

**phoenixgirl83~ Good guess on the dedication, though you weren't quite right. And yes, Draco and Harry will be making nice... mostly. :D With any luck some of your questions about the Born have been answered—also, thanks for wishing me luck. :) Hope you keep reading and reviewing. :D**

**anon~ Your review was short, but sweet—thanks. :)**

**AninoAnaklusmos~ Technically, you weren't right, but, seeing as you picked a name from the thousands out there, you were pretty close. Thanks for wishing me luck, and I hope you liked this chapter as well!**

**gibsonangelic~ I'm glad you like my writing, and I hope you're still enjoying this story. Please keep reading and reviewing!**

**KHARB~ Actually, your three favorite names starting with D are favorites of mine as well. :) I absolutely love the name Damien. I'm sorry this update took so long—and thanks for wishing me luck, I probably needed it. Camp is always fun, and it gives me time to write, so the next chapter should be along much more quickly. Please continue to read and enjoy, okay?**

**Feli~ Wow. Okay, for starters, I was considering giving you a dedication, even though you didn't guess the name correctly, just because you asked all the right questions. :D You seriously read my mind on that front—every question you mentioned has either been answered or will be answered shortly. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please keep reviewing. **

**passionfornight~ I'm sorry about the delay on this chapter, but I hope this chapter was long enough and well-written enough to make up for it. :) Keep reading, hopefully enjoying and reviewing, okay? :D**

**099ckr990~ Your review was short, but believe me when I say that it meant a lot to me. :D I'm glad you're liking it, and thanks so much for all the praise. With any luck this chapter was worth the anticipation. :)**

**Marifw~ I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far. :) And yeah, Snape is a bastard, but I promise he'll change a lot very soon. To answer your question: No, Harry is most decidedly _not _allowed to tell Snape this, and you will be seeing the repercussions of this shortly. I hope you plan on reading more—and I loved your review, so thank you.**

**Snarky B.~ I'm happy you stumbled across it as well. :D Hopefully this was worth the wait.**

**zilver~ Thank you for reviewing! I'm extremely happy that you're enjoying the story, and I hope Harry and the vampires didn't disappoint. Please keep reading and reviewing, alright?**

**Astrido~ Yes, this fanfic is most definitely going to be Harry/Snape—no doubts about that one. And you're right; Snape changing will require something drastic which will, if I stick to my plan, happen within the next chapter or so. Please keep on reading and enjoying. :)**


	4. Please don't kill me for this :D

Author's Note: Before I start, this story HAS NOT BEEN ABANDONED. Nor do I plan on abandoning it—Dicen is my pet project, and I'm planning on sticking with this story until it's done, at some distant point in the future.

But the fact of the matter is this: Dicentra Formosa is going to be _long_. As it is planned now, the story will probably end up with at least thirty or forty chapters, all hitting somewhere between the twenty and thirty page mark. I trust my beloved readers have basic counting skills, and have realized just how epic this story is going to be in terms of length. Beyond that, it has numerous intricate details that need to be woven into the plot just so, or the entire thing will fall apart; I have original characters who have, by this point, been vaguely hinted at, and will become more major as the plot goes on. I have most of this story plotted out in my mind, and I adore writing it—that said, I want to make sure my readers enjoy it just as much.

And in the interest of having readers enjoy it, I've been trying to hurry along my writing and editing, to the point where each chapter is published pretty much the moment I finish it. You guys get the raw, unfinished deal—and still, it takes me about a month to crank a chapter out. What this ends up with is dissatisfaction on all sides, as I find myself realizing that I forgot to include something I wanted to, or forgot to edit out something I wanted to, and with you guys having to deal with an interminable wait between chapters.

So I am going to take the next few months to try to get ahead of myself. I will be continuing to write this story, of course, and editing as I go—but chapters will not be published. Basically, I want to get a few chapters ahead of where I've posted (for instance, by the time I replace this note with the real chapter four, I hope to have written at least up to chapter ten). This means that I get to satisfy my inner perfectionist and, when I come back from this publishing break, you guys get much shorter periods of time between the posting of chapters.

In short, I will not be updating this story until at least Christmas, in all likelihood, though I will continue to write.

I really, really hope that this doesn't drive readers away—I know how annoying hiatuses can be. I love all of you guys (your reviews make my day, seriously), and it is my sincere hope that you guys will be patient so that I can really get this story to be its best.

If you want to, feel free to PM me to inquire about my schedule: where I am in my writing, when I'm planning on starting to update once again. In fact, I would advise that you guys do so, as I always work faster when I know people really do care about what I'm writing. I'm friendly, and easy to talk to—so feel free to PM me and tell me I'm an idiot for doing this, or that you're looking forward to the resumption of my posting, or whatever strikes your fancy.

Again, I am so, so sorry to put you guys through this, but, on the upside, when I start posting again these lags between chapters should be mostly, if not completely, eliminated.

Best of luck to all of you, and, by the way, you are arguably the most awesome readers ever for putting up with me. :)

~A very apologetic, but optimistic, Song


	5. Otherwise known as, finally

To all my much beloved readers:

Thank you so much for waiting this long—I know I promised the next chapters of Dicentra Formosa would be out by Christmas. As it's now July, I'm fairly certain it is evident that this was not how things occurred. Due to major health concerns and a huge increase in school work this year, I didn't get as much time to write as I would have liked.

BUT, Dicentra Formosa _has not _been abandoned. After much long, hard thought about this story, I have been writing it again, and taking it in a new direction altogether, one I hope you will all appreciate.

As things stand, I am currently _rewriting _Dicentra Formosa from the beginning. The implausibilities and loopholes I wrote in to the original plot will be corrected, the characters kept more accurately in their canon personalities, and new twists and ideas will be incorporated. Trust me, my dears—it's gonna be good. :D Enough so that the long wait I've put you through will, hopefully, have been worth it.

By the time this note is posted, I will have published the first chapter of this rewritten story to my account under the title of 'Sanguine'. This first chapter, and all the following chapters, will be significantly shorter than the ones you might have been accustomed to in the original version of this story, which will hopefully allow me to publish them much sooner.

So thank you, dear readers, if you've stuck with me this long. Please go read the new version of Dicentra Formosa if you've the time and interest to; it won't disappoint.

I love you all dearly for even sticking with me this long. :) Happy reading!

~Song


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